The Opera Ghost and the Potions Master
by Alex the Anachronistic
Summary: A slight accident in potions causes Severus Snape to be transported to another world dominated by a mulitated ghost of the Paris Opera Populaire...a hundred years before his own time! Phantom of the Opera and Harry Potter crossover. DONE!
1. Prologue

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**The Opera Ghost and the Potions Master**

Snape sat, absently, stirring a lilac-orchid colored potion that smelt of burnt brussel-sprouts and vinegar.

"Not quite right yet," he murmured slowly, contemplating the sparkling liquid before him. His long fingers ran through his long, greasy, dark hair and disarranged it. After a moment's reflection, his hand floated up to a cabinet above the counter he was working at, where his assorted ingredients were stored. He wavered between a glass jar of newt's toes and the jelly of frog intestines, but he eventually chose adder's fork. He picked up the Mason jar that contained those, and opened it. There seemed, when he did so, that there was nothing in it. He shook it and turned it upside down. One single adder's fork fell into the brew.

"Dmn!" muttered Snape. He had forgotten to pick up a fresh supply last time he had gone to Diagon Alley. He looked at the clock. It was 12:20 in the morning. Far too late to go out and get a jar, much less go around and bother anyone about obtaining some. And this potion would go to waste if he waited until the day to add the adder's fork…Desperately, he began to rummage around the shadowy shelves, searching for a forgotten jar somewhere with just a few adder's forks in it.

He eventually had to get out a shelf ladder in order to reach the top shelves of the potions ingredient cabinet. It was, by that time, already 12:59, and the potion below was beginning to simmer into oblivion. Snape began to get frantic; he had worked on this potion for a week, and he wasn't about to lose all of that work without a proper fight. Suddenly, when he thought all hope was lost, a worn, faded label caught his eye. He wrenched the jar from where it had so peacefully lay for so many years. Sure enough, on closer inspection, the jar proved to bear the label 'Adder's Forks.'

Seizing his prize tightly, Snape jumped with the lightness and agility of a cat from the ladder to the floor. From there, he proceeded to try and open the jar, gripping the lid forcefully and attempting to pry it off. At first, the top would not yield, but then, the metal cap squeaking with rust and age, began to unscrew. Triumphant, Snape twisted the cap more quickly. As a result, the lid jammed and stuck. With a grimace, Snape roughly and very impatiently yanked the cap off. The previously unbroken seal made a popping noise as the jar took its first breath of the cold, dank air. A horrible smell at once began to pervade the room.

"Ugh, that's no adder's fork," Snape said aloud, "Not even ROTTED adder's fork." His eyes watered with the stench. Gingerly, he pinched his large nose and marched to the sink across the room to wash whatever this was down the drain. As he dumped out the green-brown dingy substance, he accidentally splattered some of it on his hand. It wasn't much, just a slight drop.

"Oh blast," Snape noted angrily, grabbing a hand-towel from the counter. "Now the smell's probably not even going to wash off soon, it's so strong. But he didn't notice that even as he said this, his surroundings were changing and swirling around him. He looked up again from vigorously scrubbing his hand to find himself in a completely different place.

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To Be Continued!

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	2. One Lost, One Found

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

………………………………….

He was in a dark kitchen. An OLD dark kitchen, at that. Not that it wasn't well maintained, or that it had a lot of spiderwebs or dust or the like. It was, actually, very clean, practically spotless. But it was old in the sense that it looked like something from the past century. Snape stood, mouth open in awe. How had he suddenly come to be here? He looked at the dishtowel still on his hand, then looked to his hand itself. There was now a dark violet birthmark where the odd liquid had splattered a single dot on him. Snape was slightly surprised, but diagnosed that either he had passed out from the fumes of the potions, or else this was all real, and the 'adders fork' or so the label had misleadingly read, had transported him here. He fervently hoped it was the former alternative. To see, he pinched himself—hard.

"Ow!" he exclaimed aloud. "I certainly didn't dream that." He looked at the red welt left on his arm, only barely visible in the dim light of a single lit candle on a shelf high above, but reddening with the seconds' passing. Suddenly, he realized that he was not alone.

A shadowy figure donned in all black was hunched over in a chair at the round wood kitchen table.

"Hullo?" asked Snape warily, stepping forward. The man looked up.

Snape knew that Muggles have a habit, on Halloween, of dressing up in ridiculous costumes and going about their neighbourhoods demanding candy from every residence they came across. The costumes were everything from timid and cute to adult and sluttish to ultimately gory. At first, he thought the man was in a very good Halloween mask of the latter kind. Snape had never seen a more hideous countenance. But, after a moment, he realized that it couldn't possibly be a mask—it was the man's actual face.

"Hullo," Snape said again, somewhat nervous.

"I heard you the first time, thanks," replied the man. Snape had never been so shocked in his life—their voices sounded almost exactly the same, their low dulcet tones bouncing off the cold stone floors. Slowly, carefully, Severus drew his wand from his pocket and lit a large candelabra sitting on the unlit cast-iron stove. The light did wonders for the room. Snape looked hopefully to the other man again, half hoping the visage he had made out before would improve a bit with a bit of illumination. However, the other man scowled back in the same manner as before. Nevertheless, Snape was surprised at the fact that the man had many of his own features.

The man's skin was sallow, wan, and taught, and his shaggy sheath of long oily black hair draped him around the face, framing it with an eerie shadow. He had been deprived of a nose, and it didn't seem to be the result of a battle. His head rested on his hand in a ponderous fashion, and his luminous, catlike eyes penetrated Snape's own in a cold, observing glare. In its entirety, the scene was very odd.

Snape saw other candlesticks with the newly found light, and busied himself temporarily with putting the darkness to shame. Neither he nor the other figure said a word to each other. Finally, Snape seemed satisfied with the amount of light, and sat down primly at the other side of the table from the other figure. The other man continued to stare openly at him. Snape responded by simply gazing back calculatingly. There was a long silence.

"Why, exactly," Snape finally put forth, "Am I here?"

The other man looked somewhat amused. "I brought you here, I think," he replied dully. Snape raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"And…why would you do that?"

The man grinned suddenly, leaned back in his chair, and changed the subject entirely. "What's the year you're from?"

"When I last bothered to look, I was in December 2001. The day was the twenty-second. Why, am I no longer there?"

"No." The man scanned Snape up and down. "You're dressed rather oddly," he commented slowly.

"Where am I now, then?" Snape was convinced that he was in the hands of a madman. However, he realized that resisting wouldn't get him anything, and to play along would probably be to his benefit. This man seemed a lunatic, but a dangerous one. So Severus decided to play his cards carefully.

"1889," responded the man with a start. "At least, it was the last time I bothered to look." He stood up and proffered his hand to Snape. "You may call me Erik," he said by way of introduction.

Snape stood too. "Snape. Severus Snape," he nodded back. They cordially shook hands, not with the frigidity of the two strangers they were, but as though they were two colleagues, meeting for lunch under less bizarre circumstances. They sat again.

"All right then," Erik said. "Now we know where we are."

"Actually, I am far less enlightened than I could wish," Snape replied placidly. He wondered why 'Erik' had given no surname. Possibly even Erik was an alias…but this Snape could respect. If the man wished to be anonymous, then by Merlin, Snape would address him as but no more than Erik, and be content doing so!

Erik nodded, however, in understanding. "Of course," he replied, "Naturally, you are curious to know. Never fear, I shall inform you of all." He rose again and began to, probably unconsciously, pace. "You are, undoubtedly, a man of magical qualities?"

Snape was startled. He began to think that perhaps this man was not as mad as he said…or, at least, that he had some sort of method with his restless brand of madness.

"I am a wizard, yes," Snape answered slowly, not sure of anything else to say.

"Ah," replied the other quietly. "So that is what we're called?"

"Yes," replied Snape, a faint note of exasperation in his always-acid tone. He was eager to learn, however, more about this man, as oblivious as a Muggle, yet who claimed to be a wizard.

Erik began to speak again. "Doubtless you are familiar with port-keys then?"

Snape nodded. "Of course. Objects enchanted to transport whoever touches it to another place."

"Exactly. Well, to understand the rest, you would need to understand my history." He left off mysteriously here, seemingly debating with himself whether or not to say any more. Snape urged him on.

"And that would consist of…?"

Erik smiled thinly. "A lot." He abruptly sank down into his chair once more.

"I'm listening," noted Snape. He was genuinely interested now about this man. And besides, he didn't know what else to do with himself. Erik took a deep breath and plunged into the cold, still waters.

"Have you ever, by any sort of chance, read that book, _Le Fantôme de le Opéra _by Gaston Leroux?"

Snape felt a bit sheepish. It wasn't every day, to any random person, that he would admit that he sometimes frequented Muggle bookshops. However, he felt that the two of them, him and this man, had some strange something in common. Blast him if he could tell what it was.

"Well…actually, I own the book."

He hadn't meant to say THAT much.

Erik smiled slightly. His teeth, Snape could see, were immaculate, yes, but hardly straight. His incisors especially were horribly contorted; the way they appeared made him look like a vampire. Snape couldn't tell if it was a smile of amusement or of modest elation. Possibly both.

"Is this book, by any chance, popular?" Erik asked wonderingly.

"I wouldn't know, I'm no Muggle," Snape said hotly.

"Oh. I see." Erik paused. He did not appear to be very much offended. "What are Muggles, then?"

Snape paused. He had forgotten; this man didn't know what Muggles were. "Nonmagical people," he said mildly.

"Ah," Erik nodded. He seemed to be lost in thought for a minute or so.

"I do know this, however," volunteered Snape, feeling as though his remark had been perhaps a tad too brash. This was his attempt at atonement. "A man named Andrew Lloyd Webber made your book into quite a fantastic musical. It's been one of Broadway's longest-playing musicals."

"Really?" Erik seemed delighted, in a quiet way.

"Yes," assured Snape gently. He went on, "The music for that is quite stupendous and haunting, I'll never forget that stanza as long as I live…"

"So you've seen this musical too, then?"

(Oh damn, he hadn't meant to admit as much as that!) "Yes…"

There was a short pause.

"What is a musical?"

Snape almost smiled to himself. Dear, dear, this man was so ignorant! "It's basically a play, but with singing and music."

"Like an opera, then?"

"Somewhat like an opera," agreed Snape.

Erik was eager now. Here he was in familiar territory. "Do tell me about the music. What was it like?"

Snape, although he had never been an ardent student of music, knew how to play the piano passably, and knew, thus, the basic terms and phraseology of the musical language. "Well," he began, "The overture in the beginning was probably the most notable piece of the entire drama. Enwrapped in it was all the strength, passion, and angst that the characters surely felt. It made one imagine that they were in the actual story, as though they were a part of it."

Here Snape looked to Erik for a queue to stop. Receiving none, he continued. "All of the pieces, actually, were very heartfelt and profound. Even the more delicate, seemingly frivolous ones had deeper meaning behind it. And all of them were productive in that they further advanced the plot of the musical very nicely."

Erik nodded. Suddenly, without a word of warning, he was on his feet, and had grasped Snape's arm and was dragging him down a long, winding hallway.

"Where are we going," Snape asked once he caught his breath, "Or dare I ask?"

"Just a moment and you shall know," the other man said, and, at that very second, they burst into a dark room.

Odd place to end a Chapter, isn't it? Haha. I get to hold this cliffhanger over you NAH NAH NAH-NAH NAH!

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To Be Continued!

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	3. He Stole My Music!

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

_YAY! I finally got the inspiration to finish this story! _

**Chapter 3**

Erik stopped short. With the grimace of a live man lighting his funeral pyre, he struck a match and put it to a single large candle. This seemed to have had much use overtime, and the melted tallow caked its sides in oozing streaks. Upon the lighting of this, Snape got the sense that he gazed at a magnificent organ.

"Can you play it?"

The question hung in the air. Snape raised an eyebrow. "Play what?"

"Why, the music from the opera you mentioned, of course!"

Snape looked at the organ. "I'm not a musician."

" . . . Not a musician?"

Erik stood, aghast. Apparently, he had never met one who could not play even the keyboard. Seeing his almost distressed expression, however, Snape quickly added a postscript comment.

"I might be able to key the melody however. My sister was a profound musician and I suppose I gleaned a bit of her knowledge through osmosis."

Erik said nothing, but pulled out the bench invitingly. Taking the hint, Snape sat down.

He tested the keyboard with one finger, pressing gently down on middle C. The organ boomed almost quicker than he expected. Two more fingers rested on the board, on E and G. With care, he pressed down to create a simple C Major chord.

"This is in excellent condition," Severus mused under his breath.

Snape began thence to play, softly at first, gaining confidence gradually. Soon he found himself pounding out the deep organ blasts of Dun! Dun dun dun dun dun! Dun dun dun dun dun! etc. His focus being on the keyboard, he did not take the time to observe Erik's countenance. In fact, the poor man's expression changed very rapidly. Erik grew almost instantly more pale as the melody became more pronounced. (Regarding his current state, one should have deemed this feat impossible!) By this time, Snape completed the 'Overture' and moved on to the much lighter aria, 'Think of Me'. At the recognition of the first phrase, Erik threw himself onto Snape with vehemence.

"That's my music!" he gasped. "He stole my music!"

Snape, startled, stopped playing. Anyways, Erik's grasp, like that of a raven on its prey, impaired him.

Erik's eyes glared, but his eyes began to swim regardless.

"The first piece you played there could be some doubt; I modeled it after some Bach and the fiend you mentioned changed it a little, based on your rendition. But he did not change 'Bon Voyage'—my finale to the greatest opera I ever wrote, _Le Petite Coterie_! He didn't change a single note . . . "

At this, Erik sank to his knees, still clutching Snape's cloak lapels, weeping bitterly. Almost in a womanly fashion, he buried his poor dear head in Snape's leg. Snape found the moment heartrending; normally Snape prided himself on his cold and calculating manner. Now, however, he felt his emotions almost get the better of him. In a paternal manner, he rested his firm, graceful hand on the impulsive musician's shoulder.

They remained that way for some time. Finally, Snape patted Erik's prematurely graying head.

"Get up, there's no need for sniveling."

At once, Severus almost resented his choice of phrasing—really, he said 'sniveling' (the nickname that the Marauders had used on him for so many years!) as easily and unconsciously as he might have said 'crying' or 'pouting' or any similar word. But, upon brief reflection, the use of it suddenly gave him a psychological refreshment, to use the word on someone else when it had been used for so long on him.

Erik responded slowly, rising painfully and stiffly from his position on the floor.

"A pity . . . a pity you never developed your musical talents," he sniffed. "You learned quite a bit from your sister."

"I pride myself on knowing a bit about many subjects," responded Snape modestly.

Erik attempted a smile through the remainder of his tears. "I try to do so as well. Not the subjects I dislike, however. Like Chinese." Here he shuddered, involuntarily. "A bit of advice to you, dear sir—never attempt to compose a Chinese opera. I found the results to be disastrous."

Snape shook his head, disregarding the short ramble. "You need to learn to control your emotions better, Erik."

Erik's complexion doured. "You believe so?"

"I know so. You shan't ever get anywhere in life if, at the slightest provocation, you burst into tears." His derogatory tone shamed Erik, and the latter hung his head lower, abashed.

"Believe me. I've endured a great many pains in my life--"

"Really?" interrupted Erik, suddenly angry. "What trials? They cannot be much worse than those I myself have experienced!"

"Well," Snape reflected, "You may judge for yourself." Saying such, he stood and strode to a basin that he vaguely recognized.

"This isn't a pensive, by any chance?"

"I could tell you neither its name nor how to use it. I purchased it from an old crone for two francs one afternoon. She says it helps one remember things, but I could not tell you--"

"--Well, I shall assume it is one." Snape drew his wand from his cloak and drew out a long silver streak. Erik watched in fascination.

"You must teach me that trick," he observed.

"Not a trick," grumbled Snape in reply. He dropped the silver thread into the basin, then carefully selected two more, and deposited those also. "Come now, if you wish." Snape reached to grasp Erik's arm, but the latter took his hand instead—faithfully and eagerly, like a little child seeking the shelter and comfort of a parent. Snape did not protest at this, not wanting to make a fuss, but he found it deuced uncomfortable nonetheless. Thus arranged, he dipped their hands into the pensive . . .

To Be Continued!!

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	4. An Obese Villan: M rated chapter

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 4**

Snape and Erik appeared amid a cloudy dream of memory. Erik still clasped Snape's hand, as though the tired older wizard or he were dying. The image soon surfaced, and the pair found themselves within the Snape family's residence.

A portly man of great girth gazed into space, vodka bottles scattered around his feet on the floor. "That . . . is my father," Snape whispered, pointing towards the obese villain.

Tobias Snape, at age forty, had definitely come into his early decline. He had a great stomach, as mentioned above, and the crudest, ugliest face on earth. Someone might have hacked it from a piece of wood and affixed it to the body of the fattest hog ever raised. His hair, once dark brown, now contained streaks of definite gray.

"Honest to Merlin, I'm most grateful that I inherited nothing more than his nose and eyes," Snape muttered viciously. For, indeed, the two male Snapes shared only those semblances.

At this moment, Tobias simultaneously burped and passed wind. The stench pervaded the entire room. Even Snape and Erik, as time-travelers, found it necessary to cover their mouths and noses. (At least whatever Erik had for a nose . . . Snape wondered still about this oddity but decided to make no mention of it . . . ) After this eruption, the man reached out, took a long swig of the bitter liquor, and cut himself large slices of cheddar and brown bread from the sideboard. He ate this in two bites, swallowing more vodka to follow.

The pair observed a young boy of about ten ("Me," observed Snape, devoid of emotion in his voice) climbing cautiously down the staircase outside the study in a way so as to not disturb his father. Snapce, looking at himself, decided that he did not seem much different at that age than he did now at age 40-odd. He had the same loose black hair, the same austere features, the same painfully lank figure. He did observe the smallest difference in the eyes, however; young Snape's eyes reflected a cold fear, now they expressed a sharp melancholy or hatred. Though, perhaps, he could attribute the difference to the light.

All at once, alerted by the mere creak of a floorboard, Tobias stood. His eyes flashed lighting, and his weight on the wooden floor was thunder enough.

Quickly, considering his immense bulk, Tobias Snape stepped across the room like a giant after his prey. He scooped up young Severus as though wanting to eat him alive. The boy made no attempt to wrest himself away, or scream.

"You beast!" Tobias roared. "You dare come and bother me in mine quiet! You dirty little bastard!"

Here the great man began to unwind his very hefty and very lengthy belt. Little Severus shivered, but did not attempt to defend himself. He seemed almost like a puppet, unable to feel or think for himself.

Erik looked away, cringing as Tobias proceeded to lash his son. Once, twice three times . . .

"Tobias!" A female voice spoke above the whacking. With a drunken gleam, Mr. Snape turned to see a woman standing in the doorway.

"My mother," explained Snape.

Mrs. Snape had pale skin, black hair, and delicate hands. Her waist, trim and slender, supported an aching, displaced back and a heavy head. She made the best attempt to look fresh and beautiful, however. Her entire being appeared gray: her dress, her once-blue eyes, the bruises on her skin. Behind her, a potion-proof brewing apron specially charmed to prevent injury from backsplashes, lay on the floor.

"She liked to dabble in brewing now and again. It reminded her of happier days, I think," older Severus sighed.

A little girl of seven or eight poked her nose cautiously from behind a bookcase.

"My sister, Sylvia."

She retreated as quickly as she had appeared.

"Tobias," entreated Eileen Prince-Snape, advancing slowly. "Tobias . . . please . . . don't lay a hand on him today . . . "

Guiltily, Tobias laid young Severus down on the ground. "He don' scream anymore," he murmured. "I don' understand i' a' all . . ."

"You've hurt him too much already, Tobias. He's learned not to scream, because when he does you only hit him harder."

Tobias digested this, then turned to the boy. Severus sat motionless on the ground. "Is what she say true, boy? 'Cause if it is, I'll jus'--"

"No!" Eileen stood straight, a martyr about to embark on her mission. She weaned Sylvia from behind the bookcase, stalked across the room, and deposited her in Severus' arms. Then she faced her inebriated husband, a militant courage in her eye. "Leave the room, children," she murmured softly, but Tobias raised his hand.

"No, stay. You need to see--"

"Leave! Now!" Her tones sounded urgent.

"I'm their father, y' know, they'll do as I--" Here Tobias punched his wife full in the cheek "—say!" He grabbed Eileen forcefully, putting his thick sweaty lips to her neck. His tongue began to massage the pale white skin, and his hands moved to undo her front dress buttons.

Here Eileen took advantage of his distraction to say gently but firmly again, "Children, go now, leave your mum and father."

Severus did not move, petrified, holding Sylvia's hand sensitively. Soon mother's dress was half off; even then, it took the flash of a breast to initiate any action from the young boy. Only at that moment did he dash out of the room with his little sister. As the clouds gathered, Erik and older Snape could hear the agonized groans and whimpers of Eileen and the ferocious growling of Tobias as the latter as good as raped his wife.

To Be Continued!!

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	5. Snape Likes Justice More than his Mom

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 5**

Erik and Snape found themselves cringing fiercely.

"That was terrifying enough," Erik murmured with horror.

Snape smiled thinly. "That's not all, Perhaps you will find this one just as ghastly." The memories, as he spoke, spun and swirled. Gradually, a new scene showed itself.

Eileen Snape held the hand of her daughter and rested her hand on the shoulder of young Snape. All three of them wore black, but Eileen appeared less drawn and even less bleak in color nevertheless. Severus and Sylvia looked a great deal aged, themselves. Severus had sprouted up to nearly his adult height, and held his only mark of adolescence, horrible acne. Sylvia had also grown significantly taller, but no less childish. The family walked slowly down the hallway of Hogwarts, Severus holding a small overnight bag in hand.

Unnoticed except for their peer Severus, three boys closely followed. One had great large glasses of enormous strength and floppy, yet dashing, black hair. The second had a keen, hungry look, and also long black hair—his curled. The third, seemingly the runt, had a bit of a tummy and mousy brown hair.

"Who are you?" queried Erik unthinkingly as the boys walked by them.

Snape closed his eyes tiredly. "They cannot hear you. Simply, we are invisible to them. They can even walk through us, if we made them."

"Oh. Interesting." Erik became quiet, as one of the boys (the one with the glasses) began to speak.

"Poor Snivellus," Glasses stated bluntly, gesturing to young Severus. Mouse-hair giggled outrageously. "Shush Wormtail, it's not polite to laugh at him." His expression seemed sincere enough.

None of the Snapes even turned around. However, Young Severus bared his teeth like a threatened dog. Mrs. Snape did not seem to notice at all, based on her ecclesiastic expression.

"Funny though," went on Glasses, a bit louder, "How his family doesn't even have enough originality to add any color to their wardrobes."

Mrs. Snape did not appear to even hear. Severus' nostrils flared, but he still said nothing.

"Even his little sister doesn't like anything but black!" This came from Curly-hair. It seemed almost as though the boys had rehearsed this dialogue to perfection. Still, however, Severus restrained himself, and Mrs. Snape did not seem to even catch the boy's conversation. The boys only got a response from Sylvia, who snorted.

"Oh, wait, I know the reason they look so _dreary_, like corpses raised from the dead! Snivellus' father just died!"

They held a temporary silence for about fifteen seconds, then all three burst out laughing.

"What, that old brute?" Curly-hair gasped. "Stone drunk any moment of the day, looked like Saint Nick with colic?"

The boys had another burst of laughter. Snape's pupils raised so high in aggravation that he could barely see to walk.

"But you know what, Sirius?" Glasses asked Curly-haired.

"What, James?"

"I was wondering why that Mrs. Snape ain't telling us off right now." The way Sirius noted it, he sounded as though very well knew the answer.

"You didn't _hear_?" James put extra emphasis on the _hear_. Older Severus could not dispel a low growl in his throat.

"_Hear_ what?"

"She's deaf!" James grinned, attempting to resist laughing.

Sirius pretended that his ears had a dysfunction. "What?" he asked again, putting his hands to his ears like a trumpet.

"She's . . . DEAF!" James shouted this loud enough to echo all the way down the hall. At this, Mrs. Snape must have either felt the reverberation of the sound waves or Snape's tensing muscles. She turned around, smiling, and gave a demure wave.

"Goodbye, boys! (Severus, bid your friends adieu!)"

Reddening and glaring, Snape turned also. However, with the calm of a gentleman wishing the king 'fare thee well', he called to them.

"Damn you to fking hell, my fair, fair lads!"

Then he turned around, and the three Snapes resumed their course. Startled, the three boys stared after, Wormtail sadly muttering, "I wish I could do that in front of my mum."

"Severus, what does fking mean?" queried Sylvia naively. But then they rounded a corner, and Eileen prevented any sort of reply from Severus by saying, "Sylvia, be a dear and run ahead, will you? I must speak to your brother about something before we leave."

Sylvia nodded in assent, and trotted gracefully down the hallway, pausing and waiting patiently at the end.

Mrs. Snape turned to her son. "Severus," she said quietly, "I know your father's death was a shock to you."

Severus nodded 'yes'. His mother had lost her hearing the previous year, thanks to one of his father's addled episodes in which he had slammed her head against a brick wall multiple times. The mediwitch declared that Eileen's hearing would never return, thanks to internal brain damage. However, the rest of her functions worked normally, and for this she remained thankful.

"Did you like your father at all?" Eileen's question seemed extraneous, for it did not have much but one answer. Severus shook his head vigorously in dissent.

"I did not think you did. So, may I ask you to keep a secret? You must swear never to tell a soul, however."

Slowly, Severus nodded assent.

Eileen inhaled heavily. "Do you remember last summer," she began, "when I attempted to make cough syrup and managed to set the oven on fire?"

Severus nodded 'yes'.

"Well, it actually was not cough syrup in there. I was brewing a potion."

Snape did his best to create a look of surprise, failing utterly.

"Yes, I am aware that this revelation does not sound too unlike me. Well, that potion was not just any potion—I was experimenting to create a potion with which to kill your father."

Here Snape did manage to appear surprised—in fact, he seemed astonished!

"The idea was that I should mix it into his vodka. Therefore, I had to create something tasteless, odorless, and that would cause an instant cardiac arrest. I tried many a time, and only succeeded completely last week. Hence this 'tragic' event that I am now bringing you out of school to attend." Eileen Prince-Snape beamed at her youngest son. "It was past his time, anyways. I feel no regret."

Snape blinked. Not sure how to express his shock, nor sure of his own feelings on this subject, he simply took his mother's hand and kissed it tenderly.

"Oh, don't do that, you're making me blush! Now how do you feel about this? Are you very surprised?"

Severus shook his head 'no'. Then, with an inexpressible impulse, he quickly hugged his mother, making her even pinker.

"Oh, you dear sweet boy! But at least," she confided sadly, "Someone can know of my genius, now. Even though what I did is a crime, I do not believe it was unjustified. He almost killed you many times, besides," she added pointedly. "Oh dear, I don't like to think of it as a murder . . ." Eileen brushed her trembling hand over her brow, and she shuddered involuntarily.

Young Severus raised his arm and proffered it to his mother. "Come," he said, knowing she could not hear him, "I'll take care of you, mother."

"Oh, I feel as though I can hear your words, my dear! Oh, my dear Severus!" She delved into her handbag and drew forth a kerchief to wipe her glistening eyes. "I can not tell you how much I love you. I can not! Oh, I can not!" Eileen delicately blew her nose. Severus began to walk her to where Sylvia waited.

"Now, after a decent interval," Eileen began to rant, "I'll go and try to publish the mystery novel I've been writing for so long. No doubt I'll find _someone_ to publish it. It's really quite good . . ."

"Sylvia," Severus said once they approached the girl, Mrs. Snape still rambling. "Mother is very sick. I think, after the funeral, that I shall need to take her somewhere to get well. She thinks she killed our father."

He paused, then stooped down to reach Sylvia and lift her up. "Kiss mother," he requested gently. Sylvia complied, nary a tear streaking down her face. Then Severus put her down again, and the family walked onwards out of the memory.

Erik swallowed. "What happened to your mother?" His face held a great deal of pity.

Snape looked coldly at the floor. "I did just as I said. After the funeral for my father, I took my mother to a mediwitch. She decided that my mother very definitely had a sane mind, but I still felt unsure. I supposed that, at any time, she might turn suicidal. I ended up taking her to a Muggle insane asylum. She didn't enjoy it there, even though I and Sylvia visited her often—but what could I do? She died two years later."

Erik gazed sadly at Snape, feeling his silence spoke louder than words. He ventured, eventually, "What happened to Sylvia?"

"After my mother left our family home, I let Sylvia stay to manage it." Snape shook his head. " I came around every weekend I could once I had graduated, but it did not help. She started changing about then. She became oddly less lax, more crude, less decent. Her whole life seemed to become the musical training she had not cared about until then. When she became eleven, she received no Hogwarts letter . . . and I discovered that she was a squib. I let her keep living there until, when she was eighteen, I discovered her and her Muggle boyfriend having . . . well . . . indecencies on the living-room couch. I threw her out, then sold the house. Last I heard, she sent me a letter begging for money for a baby she could not support . . . well, you see how it is! A teacher's salary is not as great as people say it is! I flatly refused, and haven't seen nigh nor tail of her since. Frankly, I don't know where she is. I don't damned care, either."

Erik's eyes widened. "How are you so heartless, so cruel! And they say _I _am a monster!"

Snape threw up his hands. "Listen, man, I wasn't always like this!"

"Prove it." Erik's face hardened.

"That will not be too hard, for we are at the last of my selection," Snape mused almost genially. He gestured around them, and Erik saw that they already had entered the next memory.

To Be Continued!!

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	6. Lily Evans

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 6  
**

A younger, 20-year-old Snape stood sulkily in the dock of a courtroom. The place had a great number of people filling it, and the press sat eagerly taking notes.

Finally, the jurymen began to file in slowly after an intermission, faces reflecting uncertain emotions behind them. Youthful Snape seemed wan and haggard as his eyes scanned the audience. His face lit up when his pupils rested on a certain beautiful face in the crowd. A certain fire entered his cheeks, and the hint of a smile marred his usually severe countenance. At once, his worn, stressed appearance dissipated, and his worry diminished to calm tranquility.

Erik's eye wandered until he discovered the object of Snape's attentions, instantly finding himself taken aback.

"She's . . . very beautiful," he commented with reverence. He left the important question unasked, but Snape responded to it anyways.

"Lily Evans. The most intelligent and most beautiful girl in the school. It is a rare occasion when the gods invest both these traits in a woman, and in this instance, they produced her. Brains, wit, and compassion completed her beauty. Expectedly, I loved her, but unexpectedly, she returned my affections."

"Ah me!" Erik found no more apt a reply.

Snape went on, "We were engaged, secretly, at the time of this memory." He said no more, staring painfully at the scene before them.

Young Snape's eyes and those of Lily's met, and Lily smiled sadly, casting her eyes downwards. Severus returned it, small but encouraging. He did not want to seem afraid to his only love. However, he was too far away to see the tear running down her cheek.

Abruptly, the judge cleared his throat. "Order, order in the court." He banged his grovel in an intimidating manner. The court gradually quieted.

"Thank you. Now before we hear the final verdict, let me restate the case for those just joining us. Simply said, the prisoner at the bar, Severus Sonorous Snape, has been accused of being a follower of Tom Riddle, otherwise known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Chairman of defense: Albus Dumbledore."

There was a loud bout of cheering. After much tapping the gavel, the judge continued, "Chairman of the prosecution: Dorset Cluny."

There was a dead silence.

"Now for the final verdict of the jury . . ." The chairman of the jury stood and presented an envelope to the judge. The judge opened it, and, without a hint of surprise, read: "The verdict: Not Guilty."

There was a polite round of clapping. Severus stood, a cold gleam of superiority piercing his features as a ministry official unlatched his handcuffs. The crowd watching lost interest almost immediately, and began to tumble out of the court. The various defense members began their long congratulatory speeches to each other, and the prosecution members appeared rather depressed.

Snape stepped down from the dock, a free man. His defense chairman, Dumbledore, stepped up to him and patted him heartily on the back.

"Good job, Severus," he merrily stated, "You're cleared!"

"Thanks to you, sir," Severus nodded demurely. He did not cease his expedient walk to the front double doors of the courtroom. No one bothered to clear a path for him, so he called "Lily!" The girl was in the process of exiting the courthouse.

"Lily!"

Lily Evans turned around, hesitatingly, guiltily, caught in her flight. Severus ran to her, eager, almost appearing excited . . .nay, may we even venture . . . happy?

But Lily could not seemingly bear to look into his eyes as he so longed for her to do. He took her arm and drew her behind a potted tree, where he embraced her affectionately. He then kissed her dearly on the cheek, taking her hand as though a holy relic.

Surprisingly for him, Lily drew it away from his grasp and, attempting to hide the tears streaking down her face, she removed the ring taken from a certain finger on her right hand. It was a beautiful emerald on a delicate gold band, and she placed it in Severus' coat pocket.

"What . . .?" he began to ask, his features all questions. But Lily put a finger to his lips.

"No questions. Just . . . read the letter." Saying such, Lily opened her handbag, taking from within a plain, unmarked envelope. This she placed in Snape's outstretched hand.

Gently, with one finger, she closed his right eyelid, then his left. Severus, uncertain of what to do with himself, did not raise them again. Then Lily finally raised her face, which Erik and older Snape could see covered with the wet of tears, and lovingly kissed Severus' sallow cheek.

"Goodbye, Severus," she whispered, barely heard in the hubbub of the emptying courtroom. Then, without a word, she tore herself away from him, her heels clicking on the cold tile floor.

"No," whimpered Snape to the potted beech tree. He did not open his eyes yet. With a deep breath, he braced himself, then opened his eyes. Lily had disappeared. As though in a trance, he remembered the letter, and opened the envelope. It took him half a minute to read its contents. "No!"

He ran out from behind his shelter, but he did not see her. "Lily! Lily Evans!" He soon saw that his cries were in vain, and, recklessly, he ran over to the judge.

"Your honor, have them arrest me again!" He grabbed at the coat sleeve of the short, portly judge.

"What?" The judge seemed bemused.

"I really am a Death Eater! I admit it! Have them take me away to Azkaban! Arrest me!" Severus' voice rose to a shriek. The press, who had centered uncomfortably around the unfortunate Dorset Cluny, turned upon the scene between the acquitted accosting the judge. It would make a marvelous story on the front page the next morning.

Dumbledore strode over to Severus and grabbed the practically insane young man. "Fool! You're just overwrought! Come, let's get you someplace you can rest."

So saying, Dumbledore dragged young Severus out of the courthouse, and there the memory ended.

Snape and Erik found themselves back in front of the pensieve once more.

"What . . . what did the letter say?" The question seemed odiously curious enough to earn a scathing remark if Erik had been some buffoon like Harry Potter, As it was, however, Snape gently drew from a hidden pocket his wallet. This he opened, and a single envelope fell out from it. The paper, yellowed with age, was brittle and flakey. Cautiously, Snape opened it and drew a lone sheet of parchment.

"Read it for yourself."

_My dear Severus, _

_I'm sitting, watching you in the dock, pain scalding my heart. I've watched you for the past few days as this terrible trial rambled on and on. I know you'll probably be acquitted, because you have Dumbledore on your side. But this entire experience has gotten me to thinking about your life . . . and mine. _

_I know you don't deny to me the things you've done. You have your reasons, and though I do not condone your actions I can accept them because I love you. However, what will happen in the future? If one day you are caught again and are convicted to Azkaban for life, what then? What will be come of me? If we have any children, what will become of them? Now don't say it's impossible that you'll be caught. After all, you were found out by the Ministry once, so it's even more likely that they'll catch you again. And, of course, Dumbledore may not be here to help you next time, or he may just plain refuse to. _

_ I love you, Severus, but I have given you more than enough chances to reform. I cannot go through this ordeal again; it will kill me. And so I think it is necessary for me to leave you. I've received a proposal from James Potter, an utterly ridiculous but a horribly austere young man. He'll never but me through what you have. But know, my poor darling, that he can never mean as much to me as you have. _

_Yours lovingly, Lily Evans. _

Erik folded the epistle carefully and placed it back in Snape's wallet. As he did so, Severus held up a glinting bit of gold to the burning candle, then lovingly replaced it in his wallet. Purposefully, he averted his eyes from meeting those of the Phantom of the Opera.

To Be Continued!!

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	7. Two Drunkards: M rated chapter

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 7  
**

Thoughtfully, Erik magiked from apparently nowhere a full glass of water. This he proffered to Snape with the intention of helping the man to regain his composure. The latter sniffed its contents once, then waved his wand over it. The faint smell of whiskey met Erik's nostrils, and Snape downed the entire glass in a tremendous gulp.

"Merlin!" was all Severus said, and he began to magically fill his glance once more. Concerned, however, Erik put his hand over the rim of the glass.

"Don't forget your father's fate, now," he reminded. Snape seemed to reflect that for a moment, then suddenly downed the contents before Erik could stop him. He shuddered, then laid the glass firmly on the table.

"I don't have a wife. And I'm all right, I hold my liquor well."

"But I don't, I know for a fact," rebutted Erik. Unhesitatingly, he summoned a second glass from a counter beyond in the darkness, and he showed it to Snape. "Fill it, if you'd be so kind."

Unquestioningly, Severus did so, not sure what this odd, boyish musician had in mind. Although he vaguely suspected that perhaps Erik might throw the golden liquid at him, he certainly did not expect him to do what he did.

Erik proceeded to swirl it a bit, then took the whole glass in a fierce imitation of Snape. In other words, he drank the entire glass! Even quicker than Snape had! Then he handed it back to Severus. "Fill it again, why don't you?"

"Why, you just said that you can't hold your liquor!"

In reply, Erik held his head on his hand, turning faintly green with a hiccup. "Every glass you drink, I drink one just like it."

"No. That's the most stupid thing I ever heard. You're sick already from it. Why . . ." But Erik interrupted him by falling on the ground in a swoon.

"Hell," Snape mused to himself. "I better drink up before he comes to."

………………….

Erik awoke with a cool cloth on his head and a basin of water near him on a side table. He sat up, and the horrible realization of a splitting headache hit him. Thus, he sank down again into his soft coffin to doze until . . .

Wait, his coffin?

He had not slept within it since Christine had refused him weeks ago! Every night he had succumbed to rest on the floor of his chambers, miserably vulnerable to the rats and spiders. Why did he now rest in this bed he had for so long forsaken?

Erik sat up, much more carefully this time. The crashing of pans in the room beyond abruptly disturbed his solace.

Quick as a mouse, Erik leaped out of bed and threw himself into the kitchen. He saw a black-clad figure standing helplessly amid a pile of pots other cooking utensils. Then Erik remembered.

"I apologize for waking you," Severus noted breezily. He brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Despite his nonchalance, however, Erik determined that his words had a definite slurring to them. "Bloody pans." Carefully, the potions master stooped to pick up several tin containers, placing them neatly in a pile. "I _was_ attempting to make some sort of breakfast, but . . ."

"Never mind, I know I do not have any real ingredients." Erik surmised his pantry, left open in Snape's preoccupations. Within it he saw the shadows of perhaps one box of crackers, a small collection of spice tins, and the crust of a moldy bread-loaf. "I tend not to eat a good deal, but help yourself to anything you want in there."

"Thank you." Snape seated himself at the table. "But how are you now," Severus queried, sitting far back in his chair. "I know the first few times always are the worst, after all . . ."

"Was I drunk?" Erik collapsed in a chair next to Snape. His keen senses told him that Snape reeked of liquor.

"Yes, quite . . . ahem . . . thoroughly, too. If you don't mind my saying. That was quite a tumbler-full you ingested, and all on an empty stomach as well."

Erik laid his head on the table, not speaking. He felt very heavy, as though he would sink if ever tossed in some large body of water. That reminded him vaguely of the witch-hunting in the medieval era, did the witches sink or float? Float, because the pure water would not accept them or something. With his magical properties, was Snape a male witch? Was he _himself _a male witch? Would he float or sink? Maybe he could try it on the lake. That's it, the lake . . .

"Don't go anywhere, young fool." Snape grabbed his arm. Erik did not notice until then that he had stood up and took a step towards the door. "Where the hell do you think you're going, anyways? After all, I've allowed you to visit places no other living man has been allowed to enter. Now you must do the same for me, eh?"

Erik's mind spun back. The memories . . . Snape's father and mother . . . Mrs. Snape's murder . . . Snape's lost love . . .

"I refuse. Though you have endured much in your life, I do not see by what merit you should see mine."

Snape looked down. "I cannot force you to acquiesce, true. I thought my merit was that I had permitted you to see my past, and that thus you might allow me to see yours. But perhaps I was wrong in that supposition."

Recklessly, he gestured to the door. "Go on out there, fall into your lake, never resurface, see if I care. If my endeavors to leave your time will be hopeless, than at least I can go above and woo your Christine with my rather damned-good-looking-ness."

Erik seethed. Tediously, he stepped into his bedroom and found a certain favorite rope of his. He came out again, swinging it back and forth treacherously.

Snape merely laughed when Erik reentered the kitchen with his Punjab lasso.

"You do not like me, do you?"

Erik stopped. He had never met anyone who laughed in the face of death before.

Snape smiled still, yet his smile was one which sent chills down Erik's spine despite himself. "I know you will not believe me when I say, that I've been in far more dangerous places than this."

Erik realized something. "You can read minds, can you not?"

"Yes. Legilimency is the technical term."

Erik pondered. "Will you teach me that?"

"If you agree to share your past with me. After all, I know the basic skeleton of what has happened to you."

Erik's head dropped. "From the book you read?"

"Quite so."

Erik took a deep breath. "Then I agree."

"I knew you would." Snape stood up, rather uneasily.

"But not now," Erik spoke urgently. "I do not feel quite well."

Snape, strangely, _winked_ in reply. It was a frightening thing, like the raven that quoteth _'nevermore'_ , to see him wink.

"I am not quite up to it myself," he replied. He sat down again, and drew towards him an empty bottle from the other side of the table. The bottle was one in which Erik had kept dark red wine for Christine's occasional visits, but he observed the rim to be wet.

Snape admired the dark green glass, then slowly began to fill it with his wand. "After all," he attempted to explain, "It is good to share one's sorrows with others. Usually." Snape slid his hand to grasp the handle of a large brandy snifter, then filled it to the brim with wine from the bottle.

"It helps to halve one's cares with another, be it man or ambrosia." Snape gulped a large amount of his drink. "Oh bottle, sweet bottle, you offer succor for my woes throughout my life. And all you ever want of me is to poison my liver and kill my brain cells. Now of those I have plenty to spare, and my bile serves me no purpose, so both you may keep, and willingly."

Frankly, Erik felt scared by this nonsense. "I've always thought drink a sad thing, a way of slowly killing one's self without the feeling of suicide. I believe it is shocking and terrible to see you, an otherwise sage and reasonable man, carry on in this way!"

Erik, succumbing to his aggravated head, then settled himself back down into a chair.

Snape reflected, holding his glass to the pale candlelight. Then he held it close to him, slowly swirling the contents.

"It's a habit," he garbled. "I cannot cease my addiction _en queue_, as it were. I get like this periodically, leave me for a night and I'll reconcile with you tomorrow."

Erik felt a sudden urge to act, in a paternal fashion. He rose, dropping his lasso on the floor without a thought, and then placed his hand on Snape's shoulder.

"Please," Erik entreated, "Consider your position. You just feel an inordinate amount of self-pity because you allowed me to venture into your memories, a place sacred that I should not have even allowed myself to visit. Now you are ensconced by remorse, embarrassment, and maybe shame. But believe me," (he drew his chair next to Snape and seated himself in it) "I know where you are. I have experienced all that you have. I know, a while ago I called you worse than myself, a monster. I recant my thoughtless words here and now. I remind you, I have been known as a monster all my life, and I have done enough to deserve that title. But Friend," he said simply, "For let us be henceforth friends, I want to show you my suffering too. But I want you to be of a sane mind, for I fear the scathing edge that you have displayed while hitherto plainly inebriated."

"Hum!" declared Snape, "You fear me yet you threaten to kill me. What convoluted logic is that?"

Erik brushed away the comment, while inwardly accepting its truth.

"Please, though, promise me you will not take another drop of your _ambrosia_," he stressed the word pointedly, "Until after viewing my history from my own eyes. Afterwards I shall allow you to become as inebriated as you like, one more time."

"Only once? Why only once?" Snape seemed bemused.

"Because I want to break you of the habit. It is vile, beastly, and corrupts one. You shall only end up like your father . . ."

"Don't bring up my father!" Snape stood, instantly angry.

"I am and will continue to bring up your father! I shall do everything in my power to rid you of this affliction!" Erik's eyes burned fierce as Snape's own. "It is a sickness! A terrible, horrible sickness! You know what happened to Pierre Jondre? I watched him as he ran out of the tavern across the street and was killed by an omnibus! You know what happened to Emil Grantier? He ran into me, in a drunken frenzy tried to strangle me, I killed him in self defense! You know what happened to Joseph Buquet? He was drunk, he tumbled into my torture chamber, he died of his own vice!"

Snape seemed a bit taken aback at this long divulgence. "Cease you babbling, Erik. You now bring my attention to many men who died because of drink. But suppose I no longer care for life? Your musing that alcoholism equates a slow suicide has crossed other minds than yours, you know."

Erik pondered. Then, with great effort, he announced, "Perhaps I could help you get Lily back."

Severus Snape rose up, again angry. "You dare say such a lie!"

"No, I do not lie. I may kill many men, but I never lie."

"And all you want is for me to never drink again but once after seeing your memories?"

"Yes. That is my idea."

Snape wheeled around. "Let me think this over while I sleep this off, friend. Where's the nearest couch?"

Erik gestured beyond to an adjacent doorway. Snape tumbled within, and, not long after, Erik could hear his snores.

To Be Continued!!

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	8. Almost an Orphan

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 8  
**

A time passed, and Snape returned to Erik. The latter had sat for hours in the same place, disconsolate. He had mentally prepared himself so that he might not have a lapse of self-anger after the ordeal, like that which he well knew Snape had experienced. He rose when the potions master entered.

"Better now?"

"I would so suppose, yes." Snape's eyes, temporarily marred and mellowed by the time of drunkenness now had resumed their fastidious iciness and coldness. A certain sadness also predominated, filling his face and completing his sullen, homely features.

"Come now, you look a right wreck," Erik said, showing his friend to the pensieve. "Show me how you take the memories from my mind."

Soon, they had collected four separate memories and placed them in the basin.

"I do hope I've not forcing you to this," warned Snape legitimately.

"You aren't, so fear not. I've set my mind on this and shan't back away." So saying, Erik took Snape's hand, and together they were absolved into the memories.

"Just watch," mused Erik as the picture came into their view. "Watch."

They appeared in the midst of a magnificent courtyard, gold and orange in the rising sun. A huge wooden well was at the center of it and, by the well, sat a little boy.

His age could not have been more than five or six. The clothes he wore were all in rags, and he had not even the shred of a shoe. He struggled with a large wooden bucket, drawing it from the well. The bucket, though, was nearly as tall as himself! Its weight caused the little frail limbs of the boy to shudder with effort.

"Me, as you might guess," Erik stated dejectedly. Indeed, the resemblance was undeniable--the face had heavy disfiguration in the same way as older Erik's, with sunk-in eyes and no nose. However, it had significantly fewer scars across it.

"Boy!" The peacock scream of the scullery maid startled and scared him. "You coming along with the water, no?"

Without a word, little Erik heaved the bucket onto his back and tottered to the door.

"Finally," exclaimed the girl, who was barely a few years older than him. She took the bucket, saying, "It'd be to your interest to know, by the way--Your mother is looking for you. Now look quick, she's on the rampage!" she softly called as Erik dashed away, barefoot on the hot bricks.

He ran frenziedly into a side garden, panting, his scrawny ribs heaving. Down he vanished into a sort of rabbit-hole in a briar bush. None too soon, either; the garden gate clicked open, and a heavy-set woman donned in fine maroon robes swayed through it.

"Boy!"

("I did not have any sort of name, then, besides that," mused Erik in an explanatory manner)

"Come out from your hiding place! Get out before I start to look for you!"

Little Erik huddled, trembling.

As though she could hear his very teeth chattering, the large woman stuck her hand inside the bush. "I know you're in there. Get out."

Erik closed his eyes and attempted to melt into the floor. Nevertheless, the woman's thick hand managed to grab his leg.

"Out. Out!"

The young boy refused to budge.

"Ugh! You bastard child, I'm pulling you out!" She put the action to the words.

Quick as lightening, little Erik found himself on the pale brickwork of the garden walk. His arms, legs, and face had been scratched severely by the briar thorns.

"Oh God! He's so ugly!" The woman grabbed him at his collar and forced his head to face the ground. At this, Erik began to cough. A pale orange water spewed out of his mouth onto the ground.

"Cur! Lout! You've been drinking too much water again! And all over my new shoes! Maggot!"

("Who is this woman?" asked Snape stonily.

"My mother." Erik's voice became tight.)

"At least this is the last I'll ever be seeing of you! Come, boy!" So saying, Erik's mother grabbed the boy and dragged him out of the yard to the front of her grand house.

A band of sly-eyed, smirking gypsies stood patiently at the gate. Erik's mother forced the boy, who could not manage to hold the water he had just drunk in his stomach, to them, like a peace offering.

"Here he is!"

The gypsies took a dramatic step backwards, almost in unison.

Erik's mother opened the gate, and threw her son onto the ground before them.

"Now take him, and be gone from here!"

The gypsies looked at each other, their eyes twinkling. Then, in a collaborative movement, they swooped down on the near-orphan, and carried him away out of the memory.

To Be Continued!!

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	9. A Happy Ending?

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 9  
**

Snape looked into Erik's eyes. They dropped low, but in what? Shame, exhaustion, distraction? He could not tell.

"At least," Erik ventured despairingly, "Your mother loved you."

Snape had no apt reply.

Sooner than later, the next memory showed itself. Now, while the previous episode had begun gradually upon the viewers, so did this one have a way of entering the action like a plunge into icy waters.

"Yah! Yah! Get up, boy! Yah!"

A gypsy man, ruddy and dark, whipped a cowering child mercilessly. They both stood in a cage, illuminated by one single lamp on a table outside it. Beyond was entirely dark. "Yah! Git up! We got ano'er show tonight!"

The boy straightened. It was, of course, easy to see that the boy was Erik, but one of about age ten. He seemed certainly far older but no less skinny than he had been when his mother had thrown him out.

"Will it be a good night, sir?" Erik's voice rose barely above a whisper. It expressed fear itself—trembling, warbling, yet distinct. "Perhaps, we shall have dinner tonight, sir?"

"If ye act stupid enough, we might . . . or we might not!"

The man eased himself down onto a crudely-constructed stool, similar to that a lion-tamer might use, and threw away his lash. They shared an uneasy silence, in which the gypsy man seemed absorbed in his own thoughts.

"Boy, I wish sometimes we were still in the train, ye know?"

Erik nodded sadly.

"At least there ye could count on a good meal after a hard day's work," mused the gypsy. He seemed quite depressed.

Erik kicked at the straw on the floor of his cage. Then, as though making a decision, he queried, "Sir?"

"What?"

"Take a look at this, if you would, sir!" Erik kicked away at the filthy straw until a section of the floor in the corner had been cleared.

"See, sir, it's a design for an arena. For that circus you always say you want to build. I sketched it with bits of coal."

The gypsy stooped over the large design.

"Well! I'll be--no. This ain't your work."

Erik rose, defiant. "By God it is! I'll swear it!"

"And I'll swear that there's a devil inside you!" The gypsy angrily seized the whip.

"No sir, I insist, this came from my own mind, my own my own brain! Don't treat me thus!"

But here the gypsy began to pummel the boy with lashes even more ferocious than before.

"You were supposed to like it, sobbed Erik above the whacks upon his brittle body.

The scene began to take on an Elephant-man aspect. Yet, at once, from the darkness around the cage arose a voice.

"Halt! You there! Lay down your weapon! I have a pistol!"

Hesitantly, Erik's assailant dropped the whip. Erik, tear-bedridden and bleeding, dropped to the floor of his cage, completely exhausted.

"Are you the Noseless Child, as advertised on these posters?" A man stepped from the darkness.

This character had a heavy, dark countenance, with a thick beard and full moustache. His eyes, darker than brown, seemed to never have an ending to them. He wore the official uniform of the Persian policeman.

"Yes, this he is!" The gypsy edged out of the cage and locked the door tightly. "He just tried to attack me, sir," Erik's master began to defend him self.

The policeman surveyed him coldly, noting the lack of scratches on him.

"Believe me sir--" the gypsy went on.

"--And I did not . . ." interrupted the man, but, catching a glimpse of young Erik peering through the bars of his confinement, broke off his sentence.

The gypsy smiled. "Ain't he a horrid sight to see?"

But the policeman took no heed of the comment. Instead, he advanced to the cage and looked at Erik penetratingly, without an ounce of emotion. He stood so close that, if Erik had a nose, theirs should have touched. Erik trembled, but did not move back.

(Older Erik narrated to Snape: "What I found surprising at that moment was that he did not stare at my deformity . . . rather, he looked straight into my eyes. He almost could read my mind, like you can do.")

All at once, the policeman spun around. "I must take him with me to the station."

The gypsy started. "What? Why?"

The policeman smiled grimly. "After all, this boy just attacked you, did he not?"

The gypsy protested. "That's not right," he demanded, "He . . . he did not actually . . . he _almost_ did, mind you, I stopped him before he actually got a grasp on me . . . really . . ."-

The policeman ignored him, stepping up to the door. "The key, if you would, sir."

Here the gypsy became riled. "Why should I let the beast go? He's a danger to society, he is!"

"Well, in that case, that makes it more problematic for you to retain him, sir! I must take him with me!"

"As what?"

"As a prisoner of the Sultan's law. Statute 443 demands that all dangerous men, women, or _children_" (he put special emphasis on the word, gazing directly at young Erik) "will be immediately apprehended and taken into custody. Come now, let me take the key."

The gypsy began to angrily yell. "Why, he ain't so bad, he just pretends, sir, he just pretends. Why, he wouldn't hurt a fly . . ."

"No!" Erik pulled himself up, using the aid of the strong iron bars of his cage. He decided it was to his advantage to be taken by the policeman. At least in jail they'd give him his dinner daily. "I did try to kill you, do not lie!" He looked pleadingly at the policeman. "He hates me. He has a horrible wart on nose and he says _I'm_ a pity because _I'm _the Noseless Child! Well, call me Narcissus if never did I lay a hand on him! I want to murder him still, why--"

"I'm certain he shall have to come with me." The policeman stood his ground firmly. The gypsy reluctantly advanced and gave him the key.

"When will he be back?" the cruel man asked gruffly.

The policeman pondered. "If all goes well for him, he shall be back in say . . . a year and six months. Now do not bother yourself to show up at his hearing, now; after all, a policeman did witness did young lad making an attempt on your _life_." His tone intimated, however, that he knew very well otherwise.

"But this ain't right!" shouted the gypsy. "He's my livelihood! He's not even a lad, he's a creature! Look at that face! Those eyes! Are those the features of a man, mu' less a child?"

"Here's a penny. That'll get you a good dinner tonight, if you have thrift." And the policeman dropped a copper on the ground as he led Erik out of the memory.

"He did not actually take you to jail, did he?" Snape asked amusedly.

"No, he did not," older Erik confirmed gracefully. "He took me away and helped me to sponsor my genius." He said this simply, as a matter of fact, not arrogantly as it may seem when printed on paper.

"Why the hell did you include this scene then? It ends well for you!"

Erik meditated, searching for words. "I wanted to show you the end of that life chapter, if you will. I skipped the gory parts because none was so great that I felt the need to necessarily conclude it, and because they were so numerous that to choose one over another would be impossible. So instead, you might say, I provided a short glimpse of the brutal while moving the plot along. Besides, this event leads to more tragic ones, let me say."

"I somewhat see your reasoning," Snape replied. "So where is this?"

For they had shown up in the midst of a coal-black darkness.

To Be Continued!!

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	10. Another Happy Ending?

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 10  
**

At first, the gloomy obscurity surrounding Snape and older Erik was impenetrable. This was until a bit of moonlight through a barred window allowed them to see what lay beyond.

Young Erik, now advanced to perhaps age fourteen, lay on a hard wooden bed. He had no blanket, though because of the heat he would not have needed one if he had it. A book lay at his feet, one on _Advanced Algebra_ as the title announced. He had no clothes besides a grimy pair of trousers, and his mask was abandoned. The foul scent of excrement, blood, and mildew accosted the nostrils as though poison. Definitely, compared to this dungeon, the previous cage seemed like heaven.

"The policeman did take you to prison, then?" Snape inquired when his eyes had adjusted enough to see.

Erik shook his head. "No, he did not; you watch. And, for your future reference, his true name is Aladir Topari, though I always called him _Daroga_."

"So where is this?" Snape questioned with a hint of irritability.

"Mazenderan." Here Erik put a finger to his lips.

Younger Erik moved a little in his sleep. " Fatima . . ." he murmured, drawing his arm over his head.

Older Erik attempted to hide a blush. "Boyish craze of mine . . ." he coughed with embarrassment.

There was soon a gentle rattle at the door. "Hello?" called the young boy groggily, disturbed from his sleep. "Who wastes their time yonder? Come in with your hammers to strike me, enter with your rifles to shoot me, and bring hence your spears to impale me! Just be fast and do it hard!" He did not stir from the bed.

"Stop talking nonsense, Erik!" The voice of the Daroga pervaded, muffled, through the miniscule chinks in the wall. "Now come to this door, can you?"

"Oh dear Daroga!" Little Erik sat bolt upright. "You've come to see me in my distress! Oh, do not venture forth; they have taken away my mask!"

"Stop talking like a book and come to the door! Time is of the essence!"

Erik carefully rose and groped his way to the door. "I have risen, but I still warn you, my mask is off."

"I don't damned care right now! Do you want to die or live?"

Erik stopped. "I don't know."

"Oh come on! I didn't come up here for nothing! Of course you want to live, you're a genius!"

"So you say."

The Daroga's sigh was audible through the door. "Do not exasperate me. Come now, end this petty argument and come to the door!"

Tediously, Erik dragged himself further along. An inhuman rustling and squeaking occurred as he did so. "Shush Maurice! Clara! Clementine! Be quiet, your friend may be departing at long last!"

"Who do you speak to, Erik?"

Erik gave a short bark of a laugh. "The rats, of course."

There was a dull thud on the other side of the door.

"Daroga?"

"I'm slapping my forehead in frustration. Come now to the door, this is worse than pulling teeth!"

"I am here now." Erik slipped down onto the floor, leaning against the door.

"Here then. Take this. Quickly now!" They heard a cold grating noise, and then a metallic clink as something fell to the stones at Erik's feet. "It's a file. Use it to undo the latch on your side, I'll do the same here."

Erik disgustedly picked up the file from the ground. "This is my salvation? The key to my life depends on a harmless scrap of metal?"

"Well, what do you want? Have you any better ideas? I'm only a man, for the prophets' sakes. Now be quick!"

However, as he said this, Erik somehow assumed a strange supernatural strength and broke the great strong iron lock with his bare hands. Calmly, without rising, he opened the door partway.

"Good gracious Erik! How did you do that?" The Daroga stared, completely aghast.

Erik looked at his hands, then at the discarded lock on the scattered straw. "I do not know. I have barely the strength to walk, yet I broke that with my fingers unaided."

The Daroga dropped to his level, then remembered Erik did not wear his mask and turned away quickly. "Did you know you could do that?"

Erik lowered his face and mused, "I suppose."

The Daroga gave a low whistle. "Dark magic. It must be. But why on Earth did you not do that before now, when you were strong?"

With a shrug of his shoulders, Erik replied, "I didn't suppose there would be any purpose in escape. The Sultan would hunt me down no matter what course I might take. But, seeing that you still have a scant amount of hope for my case, I'll gladly share in it."

Then young Erik noticed the perspiration on the Daroga's brow. "Come, my man. Rest a moment; you seem near exhausted as I." He gestured to his vacant bed. "It is rather sanitary, I suppose."

In response, the Daroga simply seated himself next to Erik.

"You needn't sit near a monster as I, among the rats and filth . . ." protested Erik, but then realized: "Oh. You do not want to face me."

"Don't take everything personally." The Daroga quickly changed the subject. "Explain to me, what happened with the Sultan? I thought his majesty was pleased with your work. Why are you here?"

"Oh, his majesty was pleased with my work, certainly." A hint of bitterness permeated Erik's voice. "Just, at the last minute when we were finishing the designs a month ago, he demanded that within his new palace I instate a labyrinth of secret passageways. Their purpose was so that, in the case of revolt or other emergency, he would have a chance of escape. However, I did such great work that, after, he decided that all us who knew about the passages should be killed."

Here he gave a resentful laugh. "Me! His head assassin and executioner! Replaced and killed! What a life I lead!" The tears began to stream down his face, unseen by the Daroga, who stared into space. "So I . . . I and the three men who built the passageways were condemned, upon our work's completion, to death! Now instead of humanly killing us all at once, he takes one of us every day, for he likes to watch us die and does not have enough hours in the day to see us all tortured and killed on the same one. He started from the least important of us and has gone onwards to the most. He killed the poor Persian laborer Bobar last Thursday. He executed the black laborer Gunya on Friday. He executed the Chinese laborer Po Chi on Saturday. However, today is Sunday, and, of course, a holy day. He would not kill a man on Sunday. Thus, tomorrow is my day to die."

"That would be a ghastly bit of good luck for us," mused the Persian.

"Now, Daroga, you did say time was of the essence when at first you came."

"That you did." The Daroga rose. "I apologize for my weakness; I had to fight two armed guards. I am afraid that I am not adept at the lasso as you." Here he slipped out to the doorway, picked up the same rope that older Erik had attempted to strangle Snape with the day before.

"Daroga! You and your upstanding morals! You killed the guards nonetheless?"

The Daroga smiled sickly. "Not quite. I brought a quantity of chloroform with me, which I used to blind their senses once I had them at my mercy. They shall awake and not remember what happened to them."

"Well! For a moment I had thought you had changed!"

Pityingly, the Daroga shook his head and gave the lasso to Erik. "I know you never will."

"For once, I heartily agree with you." Self-esteem temporarily restored, Erik brushed his face with his bare arm to clear it of wet tears and gave the best of a smile. Then, with closed eyes, the Daroga turned to the boy and offered both his hands. Erik accepted them gratefully, and soon he found himself upright. The Persian proceeded to kneel on the ground, and Erik clambered onto his back. Then the Persian rose, and fled from the scene carrying the very light young man easily as if he were much younger.

The memory ended here. Snape sniffed and flexed his nostrils in disgust.

"This is another which ends happily," he mused coldly. "What is your excuse for this one?"

"It illustrates what dire straits I got into over the course of that year," Erik replied simply. "Again, I skipped the parts where I slaughtered criminals and committed many assassinations for the Sultan. I also omitted my extraordinary ways of amusing the young Sultana--very gruesome, those were."

"I should like to see you killing someone," Snape suggested, as though saying 'I should like to attend your sixteenth birthday party if you have one,' or something of that nature.

Erik found himself startled. "What? Why?"

Severus sighed. "Of course, I shall do you the favor myself, of course."

Erik closed his beautiful, blazing eyes. "I agree."

But at that moment, they showed up at the scene that so many writers and directors have attempted to portray, and failed.

To Be Continued!!

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	11. A Dreamed Memory

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 11**

The memory featured Erik, only he looked just as he did when Snape looked at him for the first time—however, he had more of a vitality and fire in his appearance. His back did not curve so much, his posture was stronger, and he even looked an inch taller. This past Erik also had a menacing glare in his eye, and he seemed truly irate. Donned in a full black domino mask, he glared out the window of the same kitchen Snape knew well.

His eyes followed the visages of a much older rendition of the Daroga accompanied by a very pretty blonde boy in the dress of a dandy.

A beautiful yet rather plain girl wept behind him, crouching against a wall in fear of his austerity.

"Just as a warning, Severus, this memory is a dream compiled of many significant and pertinent memories that follow closely but not immediately after each other. I've had this dream every time I've fallen asleep since last week, and it is a very accurate yet much abridged version of reality." Erik of the Present cast his eyes down.

"I see." Snape found no other words necessary.

Past Erik, finally somewhat satisfied with what he saw, turned to the sobbing girl. (Severus rightly assumed her to be Christine Da'ae.) Then Erik grabbed Christine's arm aggressively.

"Child!" exclaimed Erik fiercely. "You attempt to kill yourself by bashing your head against the wall? Unthinkable! That is a suicide none but cattle deserve!" He threw her arm down, a sneer across his distorted face.

"And for what purpose do you do this? To escape the task of being forced to choose between the scorpion and the grasshopper! I would almost say I never had seen such cowardice!"

"Help!" The muffled voice of Raoul screamed from behind a wall.

"Erik! I entreat you, if you must take blood, then seize mine; at least spare the boy!" The Persian's distraught shriek followed.

Erik, without a blink, gestured to the wall. "They are in my torture-chamber. There is no way out if it, save one I myself know." He gazed at Christine, a maniacal gleam in his eyes.

Erik drew a bright golden watch from his coat pocket. This he set on a black table before Christine. It read seven o'clock.

"When the hour hand reaches eleven, your time has come. You must choose, or I will blow the opera house to bits."

Christine was startled enough to cease crying and stare at Erik with admonition and horror.

"Oh yes. I will do it. I have already set many barrels of gunpowder and dynamite in various places under the main supports. I do not know if anyone ever told you, but Charles Garnier did not build this opera house alone. I helped, and I know it even better than himself. When I say that it will face utter destruction under my cue, I am perfectly serious." Erik's smile was sickening.

Suddenly, with a jar, his face re-assumed his terrible state. "Your time comes briefly. You have one minute to decide."

For, indeed, the watch that lay untouched on the table now read 10:59.

Slowly, Christine rose. She walked, as though in a dream, to a small black box on top of a small cupboard. When she reached it, she could not help but hesitate, her hand wavering over the two small figures of a scorpion and a grasshopper.

Erik muttered under his breath: "Grasshopper or the scorpion, grasshopper or the scorpion--grasshopper and the entire opera house is demolished, the scorpion and she'll be sentence to eternal hell--oh, choose wisely, girl!"

Then a tiny squeak occurred as Christine turned a knob. Just in time, too, for the click of the minute hand on the watch seemed to resonate throughout the whole room. A rushing of water follwed.

Christine screamed and fell to the ground. "What is this?"

Erik's face suddenly had become devoid of all evil. "You . . . you chose the scorpion! Oh child, dear child!" He fell to his knees and kissed the hem of her dress with extreme reverence.

"What is that noise?" The sound of rushing water did not cease. Christine trembled. "Tell me, please, what is happening?"

"The barrels of explosives are being doused as we speak."

Christine's eyes grew wide. "If I had chose the grasshopper, then, we should all be dead now?"

"Indeed! But do not think of these things! I shall save your pretty chap and the Persian when you bid!"

"Go now, but are they in trouble?" Christine's expression was cold.

"Yes, they are probably caught in the torrents destroying my plans. I will be back momentarily." So Erik raced away, an almost holy _joie de vivre_ in his features.

It literally was a moment that, in the dream-memory, Erik was gone. He reappeared almost immediately after he left.

"Both men are alive and safe," he declared impassively.

He was more than surprised when Christine quietly rose from her place on the ground, walked to him, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his forehead.

"Thank you," she murmured almost inaudibly.

Erik found himself too weak with amazement and inexpressible joy to even stand. He practically fell to the ground, and began to weep wholeheartedly. Gracefully, Christine kneeled down and took his hands in her own. She then drew the poor man's head onto her shoulder, like a mother would do with her own son. The tears she shed joined those of Erik.

"Child! Oh sweet child!" His voice broke, and the sobs racked his frail body.

"Poor Erik, dear Erik."

Bracing himself, Erik suddenly pulled himself away, a determined yet despairing anguish in his eyes.

"You hate me, Christine, yet you have so much patience with me. You kiss me, you mingle your tears with mine! Yet I know you cannot love me as you love him."

Christine did not seem to understand what point he was getting at.

"So I ask you to go. Go with your pretty chap, marry him. But take the ring I gave you long ago, which you lost and I found again. I re-present it to you as a wedding gift, with all the gratitude and the kindest blessings a horrible man may give."

He then showed her the ring he had given her long ago.

"Erik!" Christine could not hide her elation. She arose quickly. "But what will you do?"

Erik looked away. "I am aware my death is not far off. I only ask that you come and bury me down here, away from civilization. An advertisement in the _Epoque _will alert you of my eventual passing. I shall ensure that a friend does that last homage for me, posting the advertisement."

He grasped the arm of a chair to aid him in getting to his feet. "Now I shall escort you to the lobby, and then I shall bring your pretty chap to you."

There the memory faded to gray.

Present-day Erik had fallen into a desultory silence. As the men appeared once more in the organ room, Erik went into another swoon. Wordlessly, Snape bore the limp form of the Phantom to his coffin once more.

_(There is an alternate X-File ending to this chapter. Review with the request to see the X-File ending, and I shall send it to you for your perusal.)_

To Be Continued!!

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	12. Food, Glorious Food!

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 12**

Erik awoke, and realized he felt rather sick. With resignation, Erik got himself out of his bed and stalked as demurely as possible into the kitchen, mind resolved.

Snape was not in the kitchen, nor the Louis-Phillipe room, nor the torture chamber, nor the organ room, nor his own room. Erik began to become frantic. Suppose Snape, based on their agreement that he could become inebriated after seeing Erik's memories, and something had happened whilst he was gone? If he had wandered off, and fallen in the lake to drown? Or, if he had become entangled in one of Erik's many traps set to grab intruders? Or if he had simply become lost among the labyrinth of passages in the cellars? Erik felt nervous that he might have lost his friend, and shuddered as each dreary, morbid thought crossed his mind.

He then heard a hearty "Hulloa!" from afar. Snape stood in Erik's boat, two sacks of mysterious contents at his feet. "You're awake once more!" Quickly, Snape grounded the boat and leaped from it. Erik, with not a small amount of relief, slipped onto to the ground.

"Don't abandon me like that . . ." Erik scowled. Explanatorily, he added, "Nearly had me scared you had tried to get back to your own time by yourself."

"Well," Snape began, scooping up the parcels from the boat, "Since you alone know the secret of how I got here, it would be foolhardy indeed of me to try that." Snape's wolflike smirk reflected that his relatively good humor. He approached Erik, his thick boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. "But tell me," he added, adroitly changing the subject, "Do you do that often? Your blacking out, I mean?"

Erik nodded grimly. "Oh yes, quite often. My life has been entirely periods of lament and periods of darkness, since . . ." He dropped the sentence and laid his head on his own shoulder.

Snape appeared to be thinking. "When was the last time you ate?"

Erik spoke unhesitatingly. "It must have been sometime when Christine was here. I always tasted a bit of her food before giving it to her, just to make sure it was good."

Severus proffered his hand to help Erik up. "No. I don't mean tidbits. I mean a full square meal."

Erik's beautiful eyes widened in horror. "Oh no! I haven't in years! You don't intend . . ."

Snape burst into laughter. "Yes. That's why I have these." He shifted the two paper parcels in his arm.

"But how did you leave here? I don't believe you actually found a way out, it would be impossible unless you were with me . . ."

"Well, you weren't in a condition to come along, or I would have shown you the amazing feat of disapparating."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Dis-app-arating."

"Yes. It's complicated. I tried to be conventional; I guided that little boat about the lake in a circle before deciding it would be a simpler alternative. Watch." Snape blinked, and suddenly disappeared. Then he showed up instantaneously at a point closer to the door. Then he blinked again, and appeared right before Erik.

"Astounding. Can I do that?"

Snape shook his head. "Not until I accomplish a few things." He again extended his hand to Erik. "Come, my man, let us be inside."

"I refuse to come if you are going to feed me like a little child!"

Severus' face instantly was divested of any humor. "Erik, may I say something very blunt?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on, "You said to Christine that you were going to die. I believe if she had not entered your life, you probably would have before now. For, no matter what you think, you need sustenance." He began to tick off various questions he had mentally collected. "I do not know what you did before Christine. What were your habits then?"

Erik shrugged noncommittally. "I ate rather well every time I received a sum of money from Messieurs Debienne and Poligy."

"And when Moncharmin and what's-his-name did not pay you, you stopped altogether?" Snape finished. Erik shrugged in assent. "Merlin! I don't know how you even lived on that!"

Erik shrugged. "I was used to it, I suppose."

Severus nodded. "Your life has always been lacking in that respect, I see. But there is no purpose not to, now. You have more money than many a man, no time whatsoever, and me to account for. If you're going to force me out of my drinking, then by Merlin I am going to make you eat!"

Then, ferociously, he stooped and grabbed Erik's hand. "Up! I'm sick and tired of taking you to bed when you faint!"

Without any hesitation, he proceeded to drag Erik inside the little house.

Once they were in the kitchen, Snape propped up Erik in a chair like a rag doll. "Merlin, you're too light. I understand why you never go up to the world; you'd probably be blown away with the wind. I tell you, it's unhealthy, my man!"

"I don't care anymore." Erik laid his head on the table. He seemed as though something in his soul had died.

"Oh yes. You must care." Snape began to unwrap the parcels. The aroma of two hearty raw steaks met Erik's nostrils. "You made me a promise."

"What promise?" Erik's mind clouded with the thought of one resignation: not to eat, even when forced . . .

"You promised to help me get Lily!" Snape's nostrils flexed in anger. "Do you not remember?"

"I remember," Erik murmured weakly.

Severus sighed. "I cannot blame you for not recalling your words. You are very sick, Erik, and I can help you."

Erik suddenly shrieked, "If I eat fully, I gain weight!"

"Stupid fool! That's the point! Merlin, this is like talking to a teenage girl!" Snape began to rummage through drawers for the culinary utensils he needed.

Erik buried his head in the table. "No. I don't mean in the right way. I get horribly obese . . . I tried for a period of six months once, eating every day. It was horrible. I could not do anything, I felt no inclination even to move . . . so I stopped completely for a long while, until I lost the extraneous bulk."

"Hell! Merlin! Damn! Blast!" Snape ranted, chopping at a cucumber. He dropped his knife and turned to Erik. "Look at me. Do you think I am overweight?"

Erik studied Snape's slim, elegant figure. "Not at all."

"Yet I haven't skipped more than a week of meals at a time for years!"

Erik pondered this. "Did you ever last longer?"

Snape almost hesitated at first. Then he declared, "Yes, by Jove, I did. I was like you in my adolescence, actually--refusing to eat for long stretches."

"Why did you stop your habit?"

Snape shrugged. "I don't really think I had a reason. I got some sense knocked into my head, somehow. Or else I just was hungry. One or the other." He turned back to his vegetables. "Your problem, Erik, is that you're just like a teenager in so many ways. You never had any real figure to look up to in your life, so you never really grew up."

"You insult my maturity?" Erik asked this as a simple question, devoid of emotion.

"Yes, in fact, I do. You have a great amount of genius, Erik, but if you've experienced an ounce of adulthood in your life, I'm a jar of pickled ham."

Erik grumbled something inaudible.

"What did you say, pray?"

Erik spoke a bit louder. "I said, fine, feed me three square meals a day if it gives you a sense of doing good; I'll die of a split stomach before then!"

"Right. Always first to protest what's good for you, that's what a teenager does." Snape growled. "No, you will not die under my guidance. Rather, I am going to save your life."

"Why?" Erik moaned. "Everyone's always saving my life. The Persian in Mazerdernan, the Persian in Constantinople, now you in Paris!"

"Because I think we have a great deal in common, Erik." Snape's candor almost was unbelievable.

Erik shook his head fiercely. "No. We have nothing in common."

Snape paused. "You called my bluff, good for you. Now I'll stop being nice. Simply, I have the best, most selfish reason for wanting to save you; I want to go home. Because, frankly, I do not believe this is any more than a dream. This whole thing with me being here, in 1896--"

"--1896?"

"Yes, I asked the _patisserie_ vendor. You were incorrect in thinking it to be 1889, my dear Erik. Now I know that I have to save you, because you have to get me home."

"Home, to what?"

Snape threw a potato into a colander. "Home to normalcy, dammit! Isn't that enough?"

"You don't want Lily?"

Snape turned a cold glare to Erik. "Of course I want her. But I can do without her if I have to talk in circles with a lunatic like you!"

Erik bowed his head in submission.

"Now," Snape said, tearing up a head of lettuce, "You must allow me to put a thyroid-enhancing charm on you, because by now your metabolism is so slow that you everything you eat is turned to fat. That explains why your experiment of a few years ago ended disastrously. Then I shall feed you, by force if necessary, like the little disorganized child you are. A gradually enlarged portion regularly until your stomach has stretched enough to accommodate the normal pint and a half of food it can contain."

Erik blinked sadly. "You say I won't get over-heavy?"

"Not with my help, no. The thyroid-stimulating charm will be just what you need. Your reform will fill you out a bit, but only to a healthy degree."

So saying, Snape lit a fire in the stove. "Do not take this as egotistical when I say that I do believe, you'll come to appreciate food a lot more when I'm done with you."

To Be Continued!!

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	13. Makeover!

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 13**

"So, based on the fact that the year is 1896, and the fact that you were born in 1857, that means you are . . ." Snape did mental math. His empty plate and satisfied smirk testified that his dinner had been good. "Fourty-one."

Erik, much more alert than he had felt in days, checked the calculation. "Yes." He cast his eyes downwards. "That is astonishing. I didn't imagine that I was so old . . ."

"Old? By Merlin, do you think I am old?"

Erik surmised Snape. "No. I see a touch of gray at your temples, but you are not old. There is a strength, a vitality in you that assesses as much."

Snape took a careful sip of wine. "How old do you estimate my age?"

"Well, accounting for the fact that you've had a bit of stress and overwork in your life . . ." Erik's brow furrowed. "I should put you at not a day over thirty five."

Here Snape gave a snort. "Hell no. Six years off."

". . . Really? Twenty nine?"

"Other direction."

Erik started. "By God. Forty one, like myself?"

"That is the uncanny truth." Snape settled deeper into his chair. "We're wizards, Erik. We have the capacity of looking younger, if we so choose." Suddenly, an idea came into his mind. He muttered something to himself, then shook his head quickly. Then the idea began to resurface. He could not turn it away. "I actually believe I have a grand but extraordinary notion." He surveyed Erik's face closely. "Yes, it could be tricky, but manageable."

"What?" Erik perked up immediately.

"I do . . . well, if I tell, will you . . . no, I might not manage it . . . well . . . I could try . . ." Snape debated with himself pettishly.

"Come Severus, explain."

Severus closed his eyes. "Would you allow me to work some magic to try and reshape your face?"

Erik stood abruptly. "You can do that?" His astonishment was great.

"I could. I'm not trained, but I have studied the subject intensely. I wanted to make my nose smaller, see . . ." Snape shook his head. "I just never did it; I could not imagine the results."

"But it is possible?"

"Definitely." Snape shrugged. "But I have a definite lack of artistic talents. I hope you do not mind that?"

Erik threw his hands to the air. "You cannot mar this visage any more. As far as I am concerned, you can do whatever you like and it could not be any worse than it is now."

"Good. Let's commence immediately." Snape, with a stingy cleanliness, gathered up their two empty dishes and the assorted tableware. He placed these all in a basin among the pans he had cooked the meal with, and took Erik's arm.

"I need a place with a lot of light. Show me where."

Erik nodded silently, the pointed his finger above.

"What, beyond the cellars?"

"You can't get much brighter than center stage, my dear Severus."

Snape scowled. "You're crazy."

"So I've been told. Now come." Erik, abounding with energy, pulled a trapdoor from the ceiling easily. "Up this way is the quickest."

"Isn't there an opera or something going on now?"

Erik drew his pocket watch from his sleeve. "Not at one o'clock in the afternoon. Everyone's at home, abed."

"What if we are disturbed? This could take up to three or four hours."

"Then disappear through one of my many escapes. There are a great number, I assure you."

Snape rolled his eyes. "You are definitely insane, but I might be even more so for complying to this. Let us go, then."

"That's the spirit!"

The two wizards commenced up the ladder into the upper regions of the Paris Opera.

………….

"I don't have any anesthetic, Erik," Snape mused once they had topped a long flight of stairs.

"Will it be painful?"

"Quite a bit, I should think."

Erik bit his tongue. "I've endured a great deal of pain in my time . . ."

"Well, for once I say you shouldn't have to." Snape drew something from his pocket. In the dim light, Erik saw the glint of glass.

"What is that?"

"Darkness in a bottle."

Erik shuddered. "Liquor?"

"You could call it that. I thought it might come in useful. It's stronger than the stuff I can summon from air."

Erik said nothing, but took Snape's arm. "This way."

They passed through a closed door, then suddenly found themselves in the very center of the stage.

"Amazing!" Snape exclaimed in awe.

Erik smiled. It was a sweet expression on him. "Commence in a moment, doctor." So saying, he ran to a corner, flipped a series of switches in the wings, and raced out to center stage. Here he abruptly dropped onto the ground. "Now."

"None of this?" Snape tapped the bottle and kneeled on the ground.

"No."

Snape sighed. "All right, but remember it stands at the ready."

Then he set to work.

To Be Continued!!

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	14. Reactions

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 14**

Hours later, Snape surveyed his work for the last time. He passed his tongue over his dry lips, then patted Erik's very tense shoulder.

"You're done," he announced. Then he laughed. Despite his grinding teeth, clenching eyelids, and grasping hands, Erik had fallen asleep.

Snape shook Erik again. "Come now, you should see a mirror."

Erik blinked awake, startled. "Have you finished?"

"Yes, and, by Merlin, I'd say you looked a grand picture now!" Here he handed Erik a gleaming piece of glass. "I found this in a dressing-room offstage." He presented the mirror to Erik.

Erik closed his eyes before looking. "I've never been able to peer at a looking-glass before without hating what I saw. It became so disturbing, in fact, that I completely left my house downstairs devoid of mirrors. I am almost afraid to see."

Snape stretched his cramped arms and sat down next to his friend. "Whenever you're ready, I suppose. I'm rather proud of this, actually."

The poor Phantom of the Opera seemed almost unable to examine the mirror. "I do mean what I say when I say I am afraid . . ."

"Take your time." Snape's voice was comfortable.

Leisurely, Erik turned his head, then opened his eyes. His gasp was that of a man abruptly relieved of a burden that had bothered him for years. "That . . . that is not me!" His fingers grasped the mirror's edges tightly. "It can't . . . I'm not . . ."

Serenely, Snape took Erik's inflexible hand and gently ran it across his revitalized face. Nary was there a pockmark or scar upon his cheek, and there, straight in the middle, Erik felt . . . his newly fashioned nose. Only then did he begin to believe the dream true.

"I'm . . . beautiful." Erik turned to Snape, tears in his eyes. "I've always wanted to look like this! How . . . how ever did you manage to do it so perfectly?"

Modestly, Snape gestured to a pile of books, all on Classical Greek art. "I've always respected the Greeks for their idealized features," he mused "So I disapparated for five minutes to a local library, pocketed these, and found a few examples to use as models."

Here, Erik was overcome with emotion. "My dear Severus! I do not know what to say! No one . . .no one in my life has done me a greater service!"

"I did not think so," Snape's voice approached bitter, but he did not appear so.

"Oh Severus!" Erik said again, throwing his arms around the startled wizard. Snape patted Erik's now-beautiful head of gently wavy locks.

Neither had much more to say for the time being, except Snape thought to himself: "I suppose that class in funeral-parlor cosmetics did me some good after all."

……………

The sudden loud call of a workman roused the pair from their semi-reverie. Led by Erik, they dashed from the scene down the passageway they had come. Soon, panting, they fell through the ceiling-door of Erik's kitchen.

Erik, sprawled on the floor, soon succumbed to laughter. "Oh Lord! I apologize a thousand times over; we should have descended sooner."

Snape rose disinterestedly from where he landed, dumping the books in his arms onto the round table. "Never mind. I should remember, though, next time we ought to disapparate. Less running involved."

"Oh. Yes." Erik set himself upright as well.

"Are you hungry?" queried Snape, heading towards the pantry.

"Well . . . I'm not quite . . ."

Snape answered for him. "You are."

He commenced an anticlimactic preparation of dinner. Erik, after a time, decided that he should go and work on _Don Juan Triumphant_, which he had yet to complete. Thus, he left, and Severus was left to his own devices for the best part of an hour.

Whenever he was engaged in such a menial task as cooking, Snape had a tendency to like to ponder. Now was no different.

He was not exactly sure how he felt about Erik and the phantom's new lack of deformity. It had truly been a long time since he had done anything—for anyone—purely out of kindness without wanting to gain a thing from it. Even his desire for Erik to cease his anorexia was founded on the fact that he needed Erik to get home.

Speaking of that issue, when was that ever going to occur? Erik seemed to have no intention of letting him go anytime soon. But, then, it was not as though he had put his wand to the man's head and demanded that he get him the devil out of that time and back into his own. Maybe the hour to do that had passed already, however. Really, if that had been his ultimate goal, he should have done so the second he learned he was in 18-whatnot.

But, Snape recalled, he had imagined the entire circumstance no more than a silly joke. In fact, that idea had resided in him until he had disapparated to the street. Then he saw the severity of the situation. No one, not even Muggles, wore those ridiculous top-hats anymore in the new millennium. Nor did they have the beautiful traditional hansom-cabs and four-wheelers, drawn by crews of bright and eager horses. Plus, people on the street were just talking about the great wonder of the Eiffel Tower, built only a few short years ago. Hence, upon witnessing these wonders, Snape had no doubt as to where he really was at now.

The main point now was that he could not get out of this time without Erik's help, and he was not sure if Erik would be willing to let him go.

Why did he feel that Erik would not be willing, however? It was not as though the poor phantom had told him specifically "No, I do not want you to go." However, Snape sensed that Erik felt a sudden dependence on him, an insane yet unmistakable use of Severus as a prop. This was odd in itself, for Severus had always faced a great deal of inner turmoil in his life, for one reason or another; perhaps the reason he so liked to hide his feelings was because they were too scary for anyone but him to cope with. But it was maybe this impassiveness which made Erik crazy to use as a support. Snape realized that the only way he could ever have a chance at breaking away from the world of the phantom would be to find another prop for Erik. Easier said than done!

Yet there was a feeling of uncertainty in his mind now, whether he even wanted to leave. This was startling to Snape, who had always considered himself a man who made very definite decisions about his actions and almost never questioned his judgment. Of course, what he _should_ do was apparent: go to Erik, disregarding any sort of kindness which might have sprung up between them, and force the phantom to send him home. This was not the alternative that Snape felt really inclined to do—he felt the passive action would be more in accord with his desires.

The reason for this was that their conversation of earlier still haunted him.

_"Home, to what?" _

_"Home to normalcy, dammit! Isn't that enough?" _

_"You don't want Lily?" _

That last question, poised like a sword to his throat, had at once converted him yet scared him, in a strange inexplicable way. Was the entire suggestion a bluff on Erik's part? Or did the man actually mean what he said . . . about getting Lily for him?

At this moment, Erik, with a new, sprightly energy, bounded back into the room. For the ump-teenth time, Snape admired his handiwork on the other's face. He had revamped everything except Erik's skin and his eyes, for the skin would have taken too long to change the coloring and the eyes were beautiful as they were.

"Oh Snape!" Erik cried as he picked up two forks to set the table, almost in a hyper mood. "Now I can stalk the streets with no shame!" He dropped one, and stooped to grab it.

"Now," he continued, "I can roam about the opera house, and they shall think me a rich patron indeed!" The same fork again fell from his hand, and Erik dove to grasp it once more.

"But best of all, I can visit Christine and say 'Christine! Here I am! Do you know me?' And she will not know me at first, until she recognizes my voice! No indeed, she shall not!" He laughed eagerly, a pure and gentle laugh just tinged with sadness.

"Alas, but she has probably married Raoul by now." Erik let go of the fork one last time. Snape instead picked it up, wiped it on his sleeve, and placed it on the table firmly. Not seeming to notice, Erik distractedly continued, "Oh! How I recant for what I am! Oh!"

Here, he moseyed into his room, murmuring "What to do? What to say? Oh, what can I do? Oh, I am no longer a monster, but only too late!" Snape heard the sound of a restrained sob, and the locking of a door.

Sensing danger, Snape whipped out his wand and broke through the lock into the room. Erik stood in his coffin, his lasso about his neck, affixing the free end to a hook on the ceiling. Angered by the sight, Snape approached the coffin and pushed it onto the floor. It having been made years before, the framework broke with the shock, and the wood splintered. Erik likewise came crashing down.

"Erik, do you really expect me to watch you every second to be sure you don't intend to kill yourself?"

Erik hung his head in shame, debunked.

Snape put his hand to his temple. "Don't make me say you are being ridiculous, because you know without my saying that you are." So saying, he went back to the kitchen, but he paused halfway to the door.

"I suppose you shall need a new place to sleep besides that coffin. It is incredibly morbid, after all." Erik had naught to say but assent!

To Be Continued!!

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	15. Snape Saves His History Grade

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

_First, I changed the title from my 'Final' title of_ Thanks to a Missing Ingredient _back to my original working title,_ The Opera Ghost and the Potions Master. _Sorry for any confusion this may have caused. __Now, _Here_ is a summary of important dates so far, just to keep everything relatively clear. _

_Paris__ in 1896 _

_5/20/1896: Chandelier falls _

_6/7/1896: Erik lets Christine and company leave _

_6/22/1896: Snape comes, his memories etc. _

_6/23/1896: Erik's memories _

_6/24/1896: Food, New nose _

_6/25/1896: Beginning of this chapter _

**Chapter 15 **

The next morning, Erik awoke Snape quite early.

"What? Has something happened? Stop shaking me, dammit, I'm awake!"

Erik put a finger to his lips. "Do not disturb yourself. I simply felt the need to ask you not to bother me today."

Severus brushed Erik's hand away and sat bolt upright. "What will you be doing that requires absolute solitude?"

"I cannot tell you, because I do not know that it will work."

A cold stubborn stare passed between them.

"You are doing some sort of experiment, then." Severus threw the bedclothes off of himself and firmly planted his feet on the floor.

"One might say that," Erik replied testily.

"With potion-making?"

"Yes. But come now. I've no need for your interference . . ."

Snape laughed scornfully. "Interference? You forget . . . or else I did not tell you . . . that I was head of my class in potions, and that I've done a good amount of experimenting myself in my time. Not to mention that I currently still teach potions (unfortunately) at Hogwarts."

Erik shook his head. "I know you have more experience than me, Severus, but I do feel that I can only accomplish what I need to do without supervision of anyone."

"What are you attempting to do? Perhaps I can save you a good deal of trouble."

"No. I cannot tell you." Erik did not appear to be easily swayed.

Severus threw up his hands. "Fine. Blow yourself up, for all I care. I shall take some time to wander above ground."

"Thank you, Severus." Saying such, Erik ducked noiselessly out of the room.

Snape looked after his friend, somewhat unsettled. However, trusting that Erik would not probably end up blowing up the opera with his experiments, he dressed and disapparated to the surface of the world.

………………….

The clamor of reality hit Snape the instant he appeared on a lonely side street in the heart of Paris. A thick stench of horse manure and rotten food pervaded his senses and made them tingle with revulsion. The yelling of street-vendors declaring their wares mixed with the clopping of horses' hooves and the sqeaking of wooden wheels on the pavement. Everywhere beyond the alley was a hubbub of activity.

Severus held a parcel of books under his arm to return to the library. He looked out into the street to see how far from the common populace his clothing tallied. With a sniff, he decided that if he had a hat, the rest of his odd costume would be unnoticed by the Muggles. What a fortunate thing was his obsession for black!

The hat was easily attainable. Gingerly, Severus leafed through the contents of a dumpster until he found a relatively clean burlap sack. It was not easy as turning a pin to a match, but it still did not take much skill in transfiguration to turn the heavy, coarse cloth into a deliciously fine silk hat. This on his head, Snape felt confident enough to send himself into the streets of Paris.

It took little time for him to find the large library he had visited the day before, and he slipped inside without anyone to notice. It occurred to him that the possibility of checking-out might be prohibited, like in the large old college libraries he often frequented in the Muggle world, so he made sure no one paid him any attention until every book he had loaned was back on its shelf.

After this hasty return, Snape mildly began to peruse the various articles of interest in the library. A few titles caught his especial notice: an original notebook of handwritten poetry by Helga Hufflepuff, a three-volume compilation of Bestode's _Mercy and Pollock _novels, and a pamphlet about Lakewood the Great and his worst military blunders. All in all, books that should not have been on Muggle shelves.

Snape puzzled why someone had carelessly left these volumes there, but his interest was peaked by the pamphlet of Lakewood. Once he had done a paper on the man, and, in his thorough search of Hogwarts' libraries, he had found an exact copy of the novelette he held now in his hand. Out of mere curiosity than anything, Severus opened the pamphlet gingerly, as though it were in the aged condition he had found it in his own time. This is where the wizard faced utter shock.

Inside the first page was a slip of paper: however, no ordinary paper. The paper was of heavy card parchment material, and on it someone had sketched the single quotation: "The man to whom a woman shall endear herself will always find herself disappointed at his folly." The quotation, a famous one by a wizard named K. K. Maunings, had penned the line in Snape's favorite piece of poetry, 'The Lagoon of Lorinne's Laments.' The poem in itself was about a girl (Lorinne) who went to cry at the side of a lake when her parents fought and/or beat her. Her heartfelt tears merged in the lake's dank waters, making it pure, and it began to love her. Somehow, she dies, after which the lake draws her into it, and her parents never found her again because she was in eternal bliss. The story used the line at a place where the author catechizes the parents for hating each other.

Snape found himself identifying strongly with Lorinne, and wished often that _he _had a magic lake to cry at . . . though in actuality he would probably just scowl at it anyways. The literature, nevertheless, was rejuvenating and hopeful, if not honestly inspiring.

In any case, Snape recalled to himself how, in his copy of the pamphlet about Lakewood the Great, he had found this random quotation on the same paper, in the same place. At the time, he thought that perhaps this was an omen, showing that the soul of the lake in the poem could be actually his latest hero, Lakewood. The idea had only slowly lost its potency over the years. But the finding of this book was no coincidence, he decided. Thus, that book there in 1896 somehow ended at Hogwarts in the 1970s. How?

Snape leafed through the book unnecessarily, examining its vast force of knowledge for the thousandth time. Yet, he reflected, he could call it the first time, if he cared to complicate things by considering the chronological order of the earth's time rather than his own. Then he realized—someone must get the wizard books out of this Muggle library. The idea struck that perhaps, someday, a Muggle should find it and question its authenticity, and eventually bring to all Muggles knowledge of the wizarding race. Also, he noted, the pamphlet of Lakewood the Great needed to get to Hogwarts in time for Snape of twelve years old to write his paper—or else, time would fall out of syncopation.

One reason destiny had brought him here to Erik's time was certain. Snape pocketed the wizard books he found and rushed to send them as a 'donation' to the Hogwarts Library, from an anonymous donor.

…………..

Snape sent his packages by using the extent of his limited and wholly British French and soon found himself without any occupation but to roam the Paris streets. He did not intend to return to the Opera just yet, at least, not unless there came to his mind any reason to return with haste and disturb Erik. Hence, Snape found himself aimlessly wandering.

Feeling somewhat peckish, he bought a penny's worth of bread and cheese from a street-side vendor. (The vendor, like the market man from whom he purchase groceries the day before, looked at his wizard silver oddly, but decided that the precious metal was real enough and had accepted the coins as legal tender.) Snape ate this, walking with no purpose.

He was startled from counting the cobblestones he stepped upon by the whinnying of two horses. Pure luck, as he had it, brought him nearly under the wheels of a brougham laden with suitcases and bags. The horses shied as Snape turned around, and found themselves almost upon him. The driver of the cab cursed heavily at Snape, who desultorily moved out of the way. However, Snape's attention grabbed at the people inside the carriage, for they seemed familiar. At once, Severus recalled distinctly to whom the two blonde-heads—one with delicate curls, one with boyish ringlets--belonged. He saw Raoul and Christine. The former called to Snape.

"Sorry lad," Raoul called, and tossed Snape a copper Muggle coin.

The carriage rolled onwards, but Snape decided that Raoul looked very much like someone he knew. He could not think, however, of who that person might be.

After pondering for a good while upon this queer notion, Severus gave up on it and began to reflect on other aspects of his life. His main preoccupation was the issue of Erik's promise . . . still, he could not feel secure about his position on that subject. His ultimate decision was that the idea was not forthcoming even though Erik had brought it up twice. The man had done nothing to support his claim, after all, and Snape respected no suggestion made without basis.

Also, Snape did not see the likelihood of even communicating with Lily. How would it, after all, be possible? Some charm that . . . perhaps . . . would transport them temporarily to her time? No, that idea did not concur with reality. Did Erik intend to call her spirit from the unborn and compel it to marry Snape in the future? Hardly likely. Could Erik, with his genius, devise a way to do as no other man had done, to bring the dead back to life . . .?

Oh, Merlin, this was too crazy. Snape decided to end his musings and take a thoroughly mind-numbing drink, not a soft one. Unhesitatingly, he sidestepped into the first bar he saw.

To Be Continued!!

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	16. Shower Time: Uber Short Chapter

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

_Short chapter. Sorry! The next is really intense, and I didn't want to put this in to spoil it._

**Chapter 16 **

It was all Snape could do, hours later, to disapparate to Erik's lair without spilching. However, he managed to do this, for, after all, it was not the first time he had done so while severely intoxicated. To his immense satisfaction, when he arrived, his room was already dark, so he stumbled carelessly into the long day-bed he called his place of rest. Then he dissolved into nothingness . . .

"Severus?" A good deal of time had passed. Erik, with far too much familiarity, opened one of Snape's limp eyelids with his finger, the opposite of what Lily had done years ago with her final parting. Whether he remembered this or not was undetectable, but Severus sensed the connotation quickly with distaste. He threw away Erik's hand without even thinking.

"So. You have finished your _experiments?_" Snape halfway sneered, but, in sitting upright, found he had a hangover headache raging. This caused his cruelty to come into check. Erik simply nodded in reply.

"Do you want to know what I found?"

Severus noticed Erik's eyebrows had slightly singed, and that two of his fingers seemed burnt.

"If you willingly clean yourself up, I might consent."

Erik considered this for a moment. "I agree to that. I shan't be more than a moment." Then he left, silently closing the door after.

Severus placed a brief-lasting charm on the wall to create a mirror illusion. He grimaced upon seeing his own image: bloodshot eyes, heavy purple bags beneath them, with lids of a yellow, sickly color. His face seemed bloodless, and his just slightly askew teeth seemed more noticeable than ever. Though Snape certainly did not consider himself a dandy, he did like to keep his visage halfway decent. He followed the words he had given Erik, and looked relatively tolerable after a few minutes irreverent grooming.

However, he really needed water, a bath. Snape had not experienced one since the day before he began his work on the cauldron in his own time. He desperately needed to cleanse himself.

Erik came in, apparently with a similar idea. "You may perhaps want to douse yourself, Severus . . ."

"I should earnestly agree. I am aware that I am not exactly the most pleasantly scented at present."

Erik shrugged. "Not that I mind, really, but I think you would appreciate it for yourself."

"Well, fine." Severus rose and rubbed his eyes. "Now I shall not ask about your secret experiment until later . . ."

…………….

Feeling highly refreshed, Severus dressed in a set of Erik's clothes—not too unlike his own in color, all entirely black—and emerged back inside the house. He found Erik calmly preparing coffee, like he had done so every day of his life. Severus wordlessly accepted a steaming cup gratefully, and waited for Erik to explain the great mystery in his own time.

He had frankly no idea what it all was about, although he did sustain a hope—though small—that it had something to do with a certain Evans girl. But Snape had already decided that Erik did not mean his promises of before, and angrily admonished himself for setting his expectations too high. He breached another subject instead.

"Thank you for not complaining about my _affliction_ this morning."

"Afternoon."

"I don't blasted care." Severus sighed irritably, his hand to his head.

"Neither do I, truly." Erik snapped his watch quickly and gracefully in his waistcoat pocket. "Now, are you fairly prepared?" he asked Snape pointedly.

"Ready for whatever this is going to be like," Severus almost laughed, the caffeine of the hot beverage in his hand sponsoring his brain's hyper-functioning. Erik seemed a bit worried, surprisingly.

"Do you not have an inkling of what this experiment is about?"

Severus coughed. "I'm supposed to know?"

"Yes. At least vaguely."

Severus brushed a lock of wet hair away from his forehead. "I do not care to say what I think is going to happen. Let us commence without further ado."

Erik shrgged nonchalantly, and led Snape into the next room.

To Be Continued!!

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	17. Lily in the Opera

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 17 **

_Whew. Finally we get to this part . . . _

A simmering cauldron sat dejectedly in the center of the room, almost hidden by many labeled vials and beakers. From a table set apart from the generous mess, Erik introduced three Mason jars very like the one which had begun Severus' adventure here in the first place.

"I have here," Erik began, "Three potions of my own creation. I know that at least one of them must work for the task at hand."

Severus examined the potions carefully, without taking the jars from Erik.

"So, which do you wish to try first?" Erik questioned, placing them back on the table in a neat line, comical when compared to the order of the rest of the room.

"What is the purpose that they serve? Tell me that, and I shall be better forewarned. And do not insist upon my guessing!" Severus was not sure what sort of impression he wanted to create, angry or simply displeased, and the latter seemed to be most evident in his manner.

Erik shook his head sadly. "Lily," he said. This was all Snape needed.

"You . . . you managed that?"

Erik nodded solemnly. "Now choose a bottle."

Severus scrutinized the potions even more carefully. "Have you tested these?"

"No time. I hope you do not mind being a Guinea pig of sorts."

Severus shook his head. He had made enough of his weird concoctions and consumed them in the past. However, he did intend to face this situation practically, so he drew two parcels from his pocket.

"Erik, if I begin to have an alternate reaction that is more than rather unpleasant, force me to ingest one of these." Snape opened one of the packets to reveal a good quantity of bezoars. He always kept these on hand for such emergency occasions.

Erik did not hesitate to pick one up and hold it to the light of the dim candelabra on top of the organ.

"If you say so, I shall. But what is the other package?"

Severus opened it, more carefully and tediously. A single brown bottle, no larger than an eye-drop container, was inside.

"If," Severus began, "For any reason, the bezoar does not work—"

"—Oh! A _bezoar_. So that's what you call it."

"Right." Snape began again. "If for any reason it does not work, or I begin to at as though lost beyond all my senses, let me smell this—but take care not to draw it near your own face!" Here he presented the bottle of crystalline fluid to Erik. The label read: potassium cyanide.

"Why," said Erik, surprised, "This could kill you at a whiff. I know my way around poisons."

"That is rather the point." Snape smiled grimly.

Erik seemed horrified. "You are willing to die for the sake of—"

"—Yes, I am, all right?" Erik could not tell whether the potions master of the future seemed about to dissolve into sadness or flame up into anger. Erik had nothing to say to his friend.

"Now," Snape went on unconcernedly, "Elect which is the least dangerous of the potions, so I might take it first."

Erik hesitated, then gestured to the mauve potion. "I'm least sure of how this one can possibly work, but its contents have the most friendly ingredients. Oh," he added thoughtfully, "Be careful not to spill any on yourself when you open it, the lid gave me some trouble."

Snape managed to do so without a splatter.

"Now," Erik said grimly, "Think of the perfect image of Lily. Take it from your mind, like you would do for the pensieve, and drop it into the potion."

Severus thought. A memory . . . the latest time he had seen her, well and happy . . . he conjured a picture of her sitting in their favorite restaurant, sharing a glass of merlot. It had been a time when, frustrated with the arrogant James, Lily had fallen back on her old admirer. Severus had thought he had her for good, but that was until James proposed marriage to the dear, and she left Snape without more than a hurried goodbye . . . but he must not recall that, or the memory should be spoiled. He concentrated instead on the dazzle of her eyes when she looked at him, her hair shining in the candlelight, the sweet scent of her perfume melting into the cool summer breeze . . .

At once, he drew the memory from his mind and placed it in the potion. It slipped in without a ripple.

"Now swallow that, slowly," Erik instructed easily. Snape followed his guidance, then licked his lips delicately.

"It tastes like wine."

"Flavored by the memory, no doubt," Erik nodded.

They waited for a period of ten minutes, with no results. Snape felt perfectly well, and nothing interesting was happening. Finally, Erik gave up.

"I suppose that potion did not really take effect. I apologize."

Severus shrugged. "I do not blame you."

Erik then took another potion from the table. "This potion is exactly like the one I just gave you, but I gave it different quantities of—"

"--Don't inform me, I beg you."

"If you wish." Erik began to open the new jar himself. "Now take that same memory, which has been ingested and sent back to your mind by now, and drop it into this one."

Severus, after his good experience with the other good-tasting potion, swallowed it rather more quickly. It was fortunate he did so, for it actually tasted revolting. He coughed a few times.

"Need the bezoar?" Erik held the stone expectantly.

"No, thanks," Snape coughed. He put his hand to his throat.

Then he saw _her._ Just like in the memory. Halfway across the room, sitting at a table with a glass of merlot. She beckoned to him, asking him to join her.

In response, Severus stood and walked to her. He sat in a chair and took the glass from her. The rich sweet wine tasted better than he remembered.

"Lily," he said, "May I say something important?"

But Lily chattered on about her latest trip to London with her friend Agatha.

She soon paused for his response to the conversation, and he tried again, "Lily? I have something of importance to say—"

But he was interrupted by Lily's laughter. She seemed not to even notice what he said.

Severus stood up. "Lily, listen to me! I love you and want to—"

Here, though, the image began to disappear. In no less than thirty seconds, the room was short one beautiful woman.

Severus gazed at where Lily had been. "I suppose I can't change a memory, after all," he said calmly. "Rather ingenious, Erik. You reinvented the pensieve, but in a more . . . let us say . . . tangible way, that the other senses can explore." He almost added, "Twenty points to—" but remembered too quickly that Erik did NOT attend Hogwarts, and did NOT belong to any one house.

"Probably a Ravenclaw," he muttered, "Though he would do justice to Slytherin, indeed."

"Pardon? I did not quite understand that."

Severus shook his head. "Nothing, random ramblings of an outdated old teacher."

"Shush, you shall not degrade yourself that way," Erik demanded. He went on, "Are you up for the last potion? I do believe, based on the moderate success that this one had, that it may actually work."

Severus gave a sickly smile. "By all means."

Erik proffered the last bottle. "Before you swallow this, whisper her name. Two times, for good measure. Then say no other words until it is thoroughly all swallowed. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," Snape murmured, then went about at unscrewing the lid. He did as Erik had told him, whispering "Lily Evans, Lily Evans" into the jar. Then he downed the entire drink as unhesitatingly as if it were a shot of whiskey.

After a moment, he muttered, "YO did not add any erminroot, did you?" Erik shook his head no. "No matter, it just makes the potion less irksome to the (umph!) digestion . . ."

Severus, at this instant, fell to his knees and placed a hand on his stomach.

"Bezoar?" Erik inquired, stepping forward to help his friend.

"Not yet!" gasped Snape dreadfully. Erik respectfully went back.

The pair waited tediously, Snape watching Erik and Erik watching Snape. Finally, the pain grew so excruciating that Severus closed his eyes, leaning heavily against a table. At this point, a knock softly came from the outside door.

Both men started. Snape, realizing he felt no more pain whatsoever, rose to his feet. Erik already headed towards the door, and quickly he flung it open.

Snape had never beheld Lily in the nude before, and was utterly unprepared for it now. He stared, aghast, as the object of his dreams entered, as though in a trance. She seemed unaware of her nakedness. Nevertheless, both men found themselves looking away to give her a small amount of privacy.

"Severus," she said, slowly advancing to him. "I do not know what to make of you."

"Nor I of you," he stated uncomfortably. Erik came to the rescue, and draped a tablecloth around the woman. She nodded to him in thanks, but seemed just as unconcerned as when she entered.

More relaxed now that he did not feel so invasive, Severus ventured, "You comprehend my words? You understand who I am?"

Lily nodded. "Oh, Severus, if you only knew what terrors I've endured." She looked at him, steadfastly in the eye. "But, of course, I also know what happened to you when I died. All of what happened." Her eyes held a pointed gaze, almost holy. Severus had never felt so vulnerable.

"There were," Lily said, calmly sitting in the first available chair, "Two people on earth that I kept my especial watch upon after my demise. One was my son . . . and the other was you."

Severus' ears tinged red, but he continued to keep a serious face.

"I know the terrible things you did to yourself, and how well –generally, considering the conditions—you treated Harry, and how often you did rightly find fault with him."

Snape's shoulders began to sag, as though he were metamorphosing back into an awkward teenage boy.

"And, Severus, taking account how your life has balanced precariously between good and evil until the dark lord's final abolishment of late, I highly respect you. I even find more than that, and I can say that I love you."

Severus swayed a bit, and he put his hand out to steady himself. The organ's keyboard met his fingers first, and the resounding blast added unnecessary dramatics to the situation.

Lily gave a short laugh, melodious and bright. She stood up, arms outstretched entreatingly.

"Severus, I say this and mean it, but not in the way you are thinking. I love you, yes, but not in the same way as I love James. I am aware, in our youth, how I used to complain of him dearly to you over potions and brews. And I remember how I esteemed you as an alienated yet supremely intelligent being—one with more developed a brain than mine, even."

"Oh, Lily—" Severus began in protest, but fruitlessly.

"Oh Lily nothing. All I had was talent, no genius. But, may I venture, I loved you wholeheartedly then, and I love you wholeheartedly now. You've been a more devoted, a more respectful, and yet a more infuriatingly foolish man than any I've ever met."

Lily approached him and threw her arms about him tenderly. "But, Severus, I cannot separate my fullest affections from James. You see, I love him and yourself in completely different manners."

Severus, whose pulse had began to rise considerably, found himself embracing the woman in return, but with a bittersweet tenderness.

Lily stroked his hair affectionately, like she would a favorite dog or kitten. "You may want to find someone else, Severus. Someone else you can love. Someone else to devote your attentions to, so as to keep your heart from pining me so painfully as you've done so long."

She drew away from him gently. He offered no resistance. "You do not know the pain I feel when you are hurting. So please, do try and find someone else to love you."

Lily then turned to walk away. "Goodbye, Severus, my dear!"

She disappeared before she even reached the door.

Severus leaped up after. "Wait! Do not go!" Yet she was gone, and his scream was to no avail.

The pain within him, however, began to mount, and Snape fell to the floor. The flames within him made him writhe in agony. It did not take long to decide to gasp, "Erik! The poison!"

Erik, seeing his friend in such distress, opened the little bottle from his pocket and held it under the abnormally large nose of the potions master. The immediate result was that Snape's head sank meekly to the floor, unconscious.

To Be Continued!!

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	18. Epiphanies

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 18**

_Oh no! Did I just kill off Snape?! _

Severus opened his eyes to blackness. A certain heaviness on his chest prevented him from rising, and he lay quite still.

"So," he mused to himself, "This is death?" His own voice sounded hollow and out of place, rising and falling as do waves on a Venetian island cemetery. All around him was still and unresponsive.

"Lily?" he called into the depths of the pitch-black around him, but he knew no answer would come. This certainly was not the realm where such persons as Lily should dare to step in the afterlife. Certainly, Snape was in hell.

"Odd, no brimstone," he grimaced, then almost smiled. "Oh death! Beautiful death! Death that brings me here to rest—to sleep—eternally!"

At this, the heaviness on his chest, which he had hitherto assumed to be either invisible chains or just the air pressure of the area, moved with the rustling of fabric. Snape sensed that someone must be on top of him.

Gently, without wanting to wake whomever it was, he began to grope around in what he felt would be an unyielding attempt to find a light. He had no idea who it was who lay upon him, but he held a scant hope that—perhaps—it might be she . . .

Suddenly, his hand beheld a candle, and a match box to go with it. He swiftly put the two together and—lo and behold—it was not Lily he saw, her gleaming head over his near-stopped heart, but our mutual friend _Erik!_

Snape was surprised and disgusted at the same time. He almost threw the phantom off of him, but Erik woke up anyways as the beam of the candle lit upon his eyes.

"Well!" Snape said, deciding that he figuratively smelt a figurative rat. "Why are you here? Did you kill yourself for my sake?"

Erik shook his head, causing his locks to ripple in the yellow light. "Do not be so conceited. I merely fell asleep on you; my apologies, however." He added, "But I am at a fault in another way."

"How?"

Erik drew from his waistcoat pocket the bottle of potassium cyanide, seal unbroken. "I never used it. And, by God, I don't intend to!" With that, Erik rose brusquely, tarried to the window, and threw the bottle out of it. A dim splash was heard, and Snape imagined the bottle slowly sinking in the lake outside.

"Well!" Snape said once more. He was crestfallen. "What did you use on me, then?" he asked upon his recovery.

"Chloroform. In small quantities, virtually harmless. I had some nearby." Erik showed a bottle similar to but not exactly like the one he had just chucked away. Severus frowned.

"I do not understand you, Erik."

A smile waltzed across the addressee's face. "You are not the first to have said that. But in what way do you mean?"

"You condone death. You bring it upon yourself to kill others for your own devious needs. You almost murdered me in a frenzy days ago, and almost strung yourself up straight after. Yet, when I ask you to do me a simple favor by killing me upon request, you botch that up for me, purposefully. Why?"

Erik thought a good long time before answering. "I do not know," he said slowly. "Except . . . well, Severus, would you think me odd if I quote your own words of some time ago?" Without waiting for a reply, he went on, "You said, as some sort of audible device, that we had a certain bond between us. I've been pondering over this a great deal, even when I know you just said that . . . to say that."

"What a load of tosh—" Snape drawled.

Erik, though, broke in, "—Yes, that's just what I said at the time. But the more I think about it, the more I believe that it is true. Although I did create the potion which brought you here, how originally did it get to you? Why not some other potions master, why not one of your students?"

"Why not indeed?" questioned Snape, closing his eyes.

"Now don't fall asleep on me, hear? My own opinion, to be truthful, is that destiny did have a hand in bringing us together—aided me in accidentally creating the time-travel potion you found, and aided you in discovering it."

"Now why should destiny do that?" Snape found this conversation tedious.

"Because . . . well, I fear this may sound ridiculous, Severus . . ."

"Go on, I'm listening."

"I believe we were brought together to _help _each other, to bring to light our individual epiphanies."

"Epiphanies?" Severus coughed. "I'm not sure that I have reached mine yet."

"Of course not, I've not been even trying to help you reach it until just today."

Severus sighed. "Do you feel that you have reached yours, with my help?"

Erik nodded eagerly. "Definitely, or, at least, I am at the brink of it." Erik stood, and Snape blinked awake. Very clearly, he could see Erik's point.

In the few days of the two men's contact, Erik seemed transformed. His figure was just beginning to fill out nicely, his face obviously far better than it had been, and even his eyes burned in a less malevolent, more sprightly flame than even at his best before.

Snape was very well aware of the fact that he had not done so well.

"Do not look at me like that; it depresses me," Erik said sadly, seating himself by Snape's side once again. Severus slowly closed his eyes again.

"I am depressed." He wanted to sink through the cushions of his couch and never rise again. "I don't care what happens to me . . . I have nothing else to keep up a façade for . . . I wish it would all go away . . ." His face, cold and featureless, must have scared Erik.

"Severus, come my man, don't be foolish!" He began to search for random words of encouragement—an interesting feat for one who had always been an innate pessimist. "Think . . . think of all the good you've done in your time!"

"And the bad," moaned Severus.

"No, not the bad! Come now, pull yourself together like a good jolly Briton—"

"—Which I have never been—"

"—Have some coffee, take a rest, but don't lose hope because of a girl! Lord, if this is all my fault—"

"—It is not—"

"—But Severus, you are being impossible! You can't not have any will!" Here, Erik reached his inevitable climax. "It's . . . it's a cowardly thing not to want to face the world simply because you don't want to!"

Here, Snape laughed: a slow, painful, bitter laugh!

"I used to hate that word," he mused. "Coward. Eh! It's what she told me when she learned I killed a man and had joined our local tribe of death eaters. The were, to me, just . . . a group of people, I suppose. An exclusive club of sorts, but a gang in reality. I just saw the fact that if I were in with them, I would be protected from the bigger, meaner forces out there."

He laughed again. "I was terribly wrong, and Lily, of course, was right all along. Never argue with a woman, Erik, that is what I say. But I was a coward, nonetheless. I was just too stupid to realize the truth."

He sighed. "The truth of the fact seeped into my brain only when she was long dead. I joined the good side, and protected her son, but only because I loved her. It was a sort of blackmail on her part, and she prodded me along—knowing all the while that I was, am, and always will be . . . a frightful coward."

Severus covered his face with his hands to hide the emotions he faced. "I see after today, though, that with this burden of knowing my own cowardice, and always striving to prove it to myself—to her, if you will—I could never be a good lover to her, even if she did recant her own words at one point or another.

"One reason I respect her so much is because—she was right where I was wrong! She held my errors to me, a knife against my throat, and I disregarded her warning that, at my own move, I could slit my jugular vein! Though all may have ended satisfactorily for our side of the war in the end, though all may have ended with the threat of the Dark Lord dissipated, what am I?

"Am I the man I've ever wanted to be? Have I proved to myself that I am not a coward? Have I proved to _her_, even? No. I have not. I cannot. Every time I hear the name of Dumbledore, of Sirius Black, of any man now dead because he fought dedicatedly for his side of the war, I tremble inside. I am no more than the skeleton, the worst representative of a wizarding man.

"Hell! Damnation! I could not even hold to myself what the nature of my being was! A fraud! A nuisance! Disliked by all save few, who can not even choose a side to continually stick by, for best or for worst! All I was concerned for, in my youth, was saving my own skin! My own worthless, selfless flesh that does not amount to anything!

"Even that Muggle writer Shakespeare knew that the flesh of a human is far less useful than that of a lamb or goat—at least, if you are kind to a beast, he shall return the favor! But not man! And especially not Severus Snape, of all men!"

Here, Severus began to claw at himself fiercely, as though he were a girl in a catfight, only he intended to demolish himself.

It was all Erik could do to grab Severus' hands and bind them tightly with a curtain cord snatched handily from the window.

"Severus," Erik murmured, laying his hand on the chest of the panting, venomous man. "Tortured soul! You are liked. That should be the least of your worries."

Snape gasped. "It does not perturb me when you say that, but it does not change the fact that I . . . I a weak, selfless carcass of a being survived due to my own ingenuity, and I did almost nothing to save others! My life has been utterly devoid of any services to anyone but _her!_ Her, then, consequently, myself! Though all for what? What, I say?" His voice had raised to a shriek. However, he did not dare show his face to Erik, for it was wet with blood and tears.

At this moment, as Snape gasped in his bed, and Erik seemed to behold his friend with a new awe and appreciation, a slight knock came from the door.

Erik and Snape looked at each other, too aghast to speak. Erik finally managed a croaky "_Entre!_"

The door flew open, as though by some supernatural source, and in an instant Snape found himself ensconced in a swirl of tablecloth and female scents.

"Severus!" The soft voice he should have known anywhere! "Severus!"

"Lily?" He knew that it was her.

"Darling, of course." He saw that her face, like his, was soaked in tears. They were tragically becoming on her whereas they were distinctly out of place on the aged potions professor.

"You . . . you came back." Severus was in a stupor more deep than any time he had drunk to thorough intoxication.

"Only for a minute. Oh, my dear!"

Severus closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of his love, the soft young flesh like cream to his barely wrinkling skin. He felt an absolute lethargy, no inclination to move. All too soon, though, he felt her move away, slowly yet firmly.

"No . . ." he murmured. "Lily! Please! Do not leave! I beg you, do not . . . never leave!"

Lily kissed Severus' sweaty forehead lightly. It was as if a cool breath of air had wafted through suddenly at just the place Hindus place their tilaka.

"I must. The only reason He allowed me to return was because I had this mortal thing, not allowed above." She gestured to the tablecloth about her, then towards heaven. Then she began to slowly unwind the tablecloth from herself, again indifferent to her nudity before the two men.

"Please!" Severus rose halfway, his voice palpitating frenziedly. "Stay! You do not know what this means to me! Please! I beg you, do not leave!"

Lily finished taking off the tablecloth from her, and laid it at Severus' feet. "Severus, remember that I love you, but not in the way you want me to. You can always depend on Erik, though; he can help you." Here she stepped away, mystically, and began to fade away—this last time, for good.

_Note: The reason Lily is nude is because, after all, before Adam and Eve sinned, they didn't wear any clothes. So, I figure, if everyone in heaven is free from sinning like them, it must be a nudist colony up there. I think I'd prefer hell as long as I get some privacy. Oh, well, I don't know why Lily is in heaven if she's pagan, either. I suppose, at least in this fanfic, heaven consists of all the good people, and hell of all the evil people, simple as that. You judge for yourself where Snape and Erik belong. _

**………………….. **

The tables had surely turned, now., Snape having lost all sense of dignity and decorum he might have retained, Erik instead acted as a very good caregiver to the overwrought potions master. It was a few long hours until Severus finally recovered himself.

"I apologize. My humiliation for my conduct is profound."

Erik shook his head, gazing intently into Snape's dark eyes.

"You have been a stronghold for me, and I now will attempt to return the favor."

Severus ducked his head humbly. "I never do that ordinarily, never let myself out of control like that, ever." Erik nodded with empathy. "It's like being in a child's fish bowl," went on Snape, "Knowing you cannot possibly be doing what you are doing—yet you undoubtedly are! And you cannot for your life stop! An avalanche of emotions and no way to place a safeguard or buffer or whatnot to contain them!"

Erik put a firm hand on Severus' shoulder. "The less we talk about it, good man, the better things shall be."

"You know, though," Severus went on, garrulous in a manner that was unbecoming for him. "Every word I said before is true. I've always been a bloody selfish bastard, barely thinking of anyone or anything else—"

"Rest," commanded Erik. "Man is a selfish being. You are not an unkind man."

"If you say so. I apologize for running on like this."

"Do not say that, Severus. I forbid it."

Severus closed his eyes.

"Rest, and do not apologize to me for nothing" Erik reprimanded "Never again."

Then Erik began to rummage through drawers until he brought out a familiar-looking bottle. "Drink?" he queried perilously. Severus shook his head no. "Really?" Erik tried to make it look more appealing by shaking it.

"Couldn't face it," Snape mumbled. So saying, he tried to relax, and eventually fell to sleep.

When at last a sense of peace seemed to creep onto his inert countenance, Erik remarked, "I think he has finally reached his epiphany."

To Be Continued!!

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	19. Ollivander's in 1896

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)Chapter 19

** Chapter 19**

Severus awoke in almost a congenial mood.

"Erik!" he announced boisterously, kicking at the cramped form of the sound-asleep opera ghost on the floor. "Come now!"

"My, you have some frightful energy." Erik blinked awake. "What . . .what are we doing?"

"Come!" And, without another word, Snape helped Erik up, took his hand, and displayed the great wizarding feat of disapparating.

They showed up in Diagon Alley two seconds later. Erik's naïve eyes grew wide at the sight of it. Stores lining the street carried goods of great assortment, anything from potion ingredients to brooms to owls. It was as much as Snape could do to keep Erik at his heels.

"We do not have time to lollygag," Severus warned, and dragged Erik along.

"Where, perchance, are we hurrying to?" It was Erik's turn at last in this story to feel as though he floundered in a sea of questions and the one person who could have tossed him a life-preserver of answers was withholding it.

"I'm going to begin your condensed wizard training." So saying, Severus led the pair to burst into Ollivander's Wands.

Mr. Ollivander, the older great-grandfather of the Ollivander Snape knew, seemed very surprised at the sudden impact of the men.

"We're here for a wand," Erik announced gaily, eager expectation on his face. A proper wand of his own!

Ollivander got out his spectacles and took a good look at the men. "For you?" he asked, sliding cantankerously off his stool to better examine them. He shook his finger at Erik.

"Yes, indeed," Severus' nose flexed for just an instant. Erik decided that this was one of his friend's less damaging habits.

"You're a _bit_ old to be getting a wand, I should think," the old man continued, clearly wanting an explanation.

"He is from Paris, and lost his own over his travels," Severus explained deftly.

"Really? From Paris, eh?" Ollivander raised an eyebrow. "Lots of . . . _vamoose!_ . . . they say is over there. Would you agree to that?"

Ollivander only got a blank expression in return.

"Ze _vamooze_ . . . I do not know what you should mean by zat," commented Erik, donning in an instant a fully dramatic yet convincing Parisian accent.

Ollivander waved his hand. "Never mind." He began to take down boxes from the shelves.

Erik showed his definite inability with wands at the very first try.

"I apologize," he said for the third time, after searing the floor with a black tattoo, destroying a corner of Ollivander's counter, and making Ollivander's pet parakeet disappear randomly from its cage.

Ollivander was very infuriated, and began to build up steaming anger, like a teakettle. Snape hastened to explain in a hasty whisper, "I hoped I did not have to bring this up, but it seems necessary . . . the poor man was run over by a brougham last week, suffered from amnesia ever since."

This quickly gained Ollivander's sympathy, and the little man went back to mumbling how Severus resembled Ferdinand Prince, his friend's son.

Finally, Erik decided on a fine strong birch wand, long and agile, but a little bit unbalanced. The core was Dragon Heartstring.

"Interesting," Snape said when Erik finally managed to make a simple _Lumos!_ work, and selected the wand he held to be the one for him. Snape's wand, you see, was also birch, but his core was of Hair from the Mane of a Kelpie.

The tension remained relaxed until the wand was securely bought and paid for by Erik, who was not a man to be beholden to anyone. Then Ollivander shone them a look saying, "I've endured you for an hour, and I've sold you your wand, but now get the DAMN HELL OUT!" Snape did not need to use his occulmency skills to read that.

Soon Erik and Snape found themselves once more in the cellars of the Paris Opera.

"That was invigorating," Erik mused warmly, examining his wand with a tenderness amazing towards a mere inanimate object.

Severus shrugged nonchalantly. "It always is when one goes there first." He then proposed, "Are you hungry, or would you prefer to begin work?"

All at once, he realized what a stupid question this was. "I know," Severus began, and the men said in unison:

"Work."

…………………………

Hours later, both men were exhausted, yet relatively content. Erik, though not adept at first with magic, soon got quite good once he had gotten past _Alohomora!_ In fact, he covered and mastered many a charm in the time Snape instructed him.

All too soon, Snape asked, "What time does your watch read?"

"Half past one."

Severus nodded. "Good. We have enough time, I believe, before nightfall."

Erik posed a pertinent question. "What exactly do you intend to do at nightfall?"

"You mean we. I am certainly not embarking on this alone."

"Come, man what is it?"

Imitating Erik's powerful reply of "Lily," earlier, Snape stated:

"Christine."

_Ok, that's enough for this chapter. Next one will be longer, promise! _

To Be Continued!!

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	20. At the De Chagny's

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)Chapter 19

**Chapter 20 **

_Oh yeah! 20 Chapters! Woot! And 70 pages on Word! Yah! _

"Permit me to ask . . . Why are you doing this, Severus?"

The pair waited outside the formidable gate of the De Chagny estate. The moon hung high and the clouds hung low, to give the nocturnal mission an even eerier hint of foreboding.

Snape looked at Erik, devoid of emotion in his gaze. "For you, I suppose. Just because I wanted to do some action beneficial to someone besides myself, to someone besides _her _. . ."

He briskly wheeled around to survey the area through the huge iron bars of the gate. Erik nodded in sympathy, then coolly stepped beside his friend.

Snape muttered, "We can not see anything from here; there is an excess of foliage . . ."

"Wait, then." Without any more warning, Erik put his foot in between one of the bars and somehow scaled up to the top of the gate. "Hold it," he hoarsely whispered to Snape, and he leaped to the top of the wall with the agility of an orangutan and the grace of a sparrow. Then he disappeared, creeping stealthily and swiftly away across the top of the wall.

Severus waited three minutes, and decided that he should follow Erik. He uneasily began to try and climb the gate himself, but he halted when Erik reemerged into the light. Snape saw that the opera ghost was panting from running, and a little unsettled. In his haste to get down, Erik slipped and fell—but, almost romantically, into Snape's open arms.

The pair stared at each other as though for the first time. Erik was not sure whether he was being surveyed or if he were scrutinizing Snape. He felt an uncanny thrill pass over him, a sensual tension that seemed thick enough to slice . . . why all this? In return, Snape gazed fiercely into Erik's eyes in a way he had only displayed once before. Severus strangely felt like he wanted to tell Erik something . . . but what the deuced hell, Snape wondered, did he have to say?

The moment was over in an instant, and Snape gently let Erik down to the pavement, though the two could not keep their eyes away from each other. Suddenly, Erik shook his head fiercely as though to rid it of revolting images.

"Let us cease this. It's pointless and distracting."

"Yes, erm, undoubtedly." Severus flexed his nose slightly with distaste, also allowing his shaggy black locks to whip his face. "So, what is over there?" he asked, gesturing to beyond the gate.

"I have a clear image of the area," Erik whispered haughtily. "There is an old gate-keeper who seems rather astute. He is positioned approximately twenty feet away from here, just behind that curve, in a small shed that I suppose he calls home." He drew his new wand from his pocket proudly. "I'll hex him."

"I shall be behind you in case . . . well, I shall be there." Severus did not really doubt Erik's abilities after seeing his performance in training . . . well, maybe he did, just slightly. Natural talent did not make up for years of practice.

Like a child experiencing a new toy, Erik gave the gate's large lock a brief _Alohomora!_ and it opened softly.

"It's not as though I cannot climb . . ." Snape sulkily whispered. Erik nodded but held the gate firmly ajar.

"We may need a quick escape route. Come." Then Erik disappeared into the bushes, Snape closely at his heels.

They approached the guard's shed tediously from behind, but, to their surprise and chagrin, the guard was not there.

"Probably went off for a drink before the bars close for the evening," Erik decided. "No harm will come from him." So they went onwards without a delay.

The entire De Chagny mansion soon loomed over the pair. It did not emerge gradually, like any normal house would do, but suddenly; they came out of the underbrush and found themselves at its mercy. All was dark within its grand halls. Silently, the men followed its curvaceous side from the safety of the shadows.

They rounded a corner, at which point Erik put out his hand. "Sh! Stop!"

"Is someone there?" whispered Snape in reply."Raoul?"

"I should say." Erik took a step back, then gestured for Severus to have a look.

About thirty or forty feet away horizontally, twenty feet vertically, a figure stood on a balcony. A waft of tobaccos smoke pierced the cool air—the figure obviously the source.

"Thank God you don't smoke, Severus, or I could not abide you," Erik proclaimed.

Severus shrugged. "The fashion dropped with us when the Muggles began using cigarettes, I believe. That would have been far before my time."

"Cigarettes?" Erik's tone asked for an explanation.

"Like a pipe, but condensed into a roll the size of quill's tip. You light it on fire, and it works as well as a pipe only there is nothing to clean afterwards excepting your hands. Dingy stuff, nicotine. Horrible for your lungs; one gets asthma and a horrible cough and who knows what else."

"Enough of this," Erik declared, as though slamming a dictionary shut. "So what do we do now? I'll assume Christine is inside that room, if he's I his nightshirt?"

"Perhaps. But it may be that they sleep in separate rooms; rich people often do that." Erik could not tell if Snape's voice held a note of bitterness.

"Why, then, did he come outside to smoke, then?" Erik mused. "I'll stake my life that Christine is in there."

Snape snorted. "At least you didn't stake _my _life. I should not have like that very much."

"Well," Erik went on, ignoring Snape's unruly comment, "Let's—" But he was interrupted by a new voice.

"Bonjour, messieurs!" A scrawny, tattered old man approached, a gun in his hand and a sinister sound in his tone.

Erik took over in a flash, beginning to engage in fluent, incoherent French. Snape took the opportunity to stun the Muggle while the old man was taken aback, and calmly our two culprits left him on the ground to thaw until morning.

Erik and Severus did not have a lot of time. The whole scuffle had attracted Raoul's attention, and he was looking over the edge of the balcony. Fortunately for them, however, he gazed completely in the wrong direction. Severus abruptly threw a stun at the blonde god, which hit him and sent the man crashing to the floor. His pipe bounced from his hand and shattered somewhere.

"I had been hoping for that opportunity," Erik mused sadly, "But good one anyhow."

"Thank you." Severus gave a mock bow, then gestured to the wall of the house. "Should we ascend?"

"Of course." Then, in a James Bond fashion, Erik began to clamber up the trellis to the roof. Severus followed immediately.

The smashing of the pipe had awakened Christine, or so it seemed.

"Raoul? Raoul?" The voice, plaintive and questioning, sounded weak and tired. Quickly, Erik reached the roof, and hauled Severus up the rest of the way. They padded gently across the roof until they just overlooked the balcony.

"Raoul? Darling, are you all right?" The same blonde girl from Erik's memories, hidden under a kimono, came into the open night.

"Raould? Ra—Ah!" For Erik had jumped down lightly next to her, in all his glory. Severus looked on, feeling himself a sadder, wiser, and much older man.

Christine looked about to scream her head off, but could not seem to find the voice. "Who . . . who are you?" she gasped, barely audible.

In reply, Erik bowed low, tucked his right leg behind himself and propped the other in a display of obsequious behavior.

"Christine," he spoke softly, wistfully.

Christine stood, unable for words.

"Do you not know me?" Erik asked, sadness tinting his voice.

All at once, Christine slowly nodded. "Erik."

"Yes, my dear girl! It is me!" Erik straightened and took the girl's hand tenderly in his own.

Christine's voice and face could not decide whether to be elated or angry. "Erik," she said again, "Why are you here? And take off that ridiculous mask. It looks too realistic."

Erik smiled. "But it is real, Christine!" He drew her hand across his face.

Christine shuddered. "This . . . this is a great trick, Erik. Your cheeks are even hot as I touch them. But remove the mask, for I will not be deceived."

Erik bowed his head and kissed her hand tenderly. "You may try as you like to remove it, but, you will see, there is no band, no paste, nothing whatever beyond my own self. I present it to you, Christine, with askance, pleading, for you to come and live a life with me."

Christine softened. Trembling, she laid her hand on his shoulder and leaned in as though to kiss . . . then, quick as a mole, tried to pull off his nose!

:"Owwww!" exclaimed Erik, shaking to try and make her release her tight grip. She retained it, her nails sinking into his magically-modified flesh.

"Astounding," she murmured, drawing her fingers away, the tips slightly bloody. "How did you do this?"

Erik modestly threw his hand apparently up into the air. Severus, seeing that he had an unexpected cue, leaped awkwardly down to join the pair.

"This is my friend . . . Shylock . . ." Erik introduced. "He is a doctor of sorts. Shylock, this is Christine."

Severus nodded, and Christine's face reflected his look of cold contemplation.

Snape little doubted why Erik gave him a false name. After the encounter with the brougham with Christine and Raoul inside, Snape did not think it wise to reveal his true name to these people. They seemed so familiar still, yet he could not place them at all. Him or her. Our favorite potions master had NOT explained to Erik why he wanted to be known as 'Shylock,' but Erik knew better than to ask questions of Snape when the latter flexed his nose.

Why 'Shylock', of all names under the sun? I rather think it had something to do with that quotation from Shakespeare Severus mentioned a few chapters ago:

"_'Even that Muggle writer Shakespeare knew that the flesh of a human is far less useful than that of a lamb or goat—at least, if you are kind to a beast, he shall return the favor! But not man!'_"

We can safely assume that he had _The Merchant of Venice_ on his mind, whatever the reason.

In any case, Christine turned back to Erik. "Astounding, though . . ." she mused.

"So, my dear . . . will you come with me?" Erik's voice was almost timorous.

Christine raised her head up and down in assent. "I will be glad to do so. You are the most beautiful man I've ever seen!"

She threw herself at him once more, but this time to kiss him squarely upon the lips.

Snape's amusement turned to plaintive curiosity, but his immediate reaction was to turn away. He did not look back until Erik exclaimed:

"Come!"

Severus faced the very pink couple again.

Erik alighted upon the thin railing of the balcony. "I know you should want me!"

For half a second, Snape thought the comment was for him, but the idea was quickly dispelled.

"Wait!" Christine seemed nervous at the prospect of falling, number one. Number two, she glanced back at Raoul, who stirred. She looked back at Erik, who was ready to bound away with her, and at Snape, who seemed to just be the dogged follower rather than the one who initiated this expedition in the first place. Then she looked at Raoul again, for he moaned.

"Come back next week," she whispered hoarsely. "Escape from here now, while you can. On Thursday next, my husband will be away. I cannot leave him now . . . but then . . ."

Erik, understanding the situation, quickly kissed her. "We shall come Thursday," he declared a bit too loudly, and motioned for Snape to follow him. The pair scrambled up onto the roof, then out of sight.

To Be Continued!!

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	21. The Taint of the Malfoys

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 21 **

So, to make a long story short, Erik and Severus came back to the De Chagny estate when next Thursday came to their door, and they brought away the blushing 'bride' of sorts to Erik's lair.

Raoul would never learn of it until, Christine said, his return home. At this point he would be met by a note, from her. This would insist that she left for Switzerland because she had heard that she had some possible relatives there—a novel thing for the girl practically an orphan all her life! Trusting her implicitly, Raoul would proceed to run off to Switzerland, only to discover by eventuality that she was not there. By then, if he came back to the estate, there would be nothing he could do. Even if he did suspect Erik, it would not be as if he could get down to the darkest lairs of the opera unaided. The Persian could not help, for the queer little man had left Paris on official business for a year, with no forwarding address.

But Erik said that they should be long gone by then. Now that Severus had remedied his face, there was no need to hide from the open world! He and Christine . . . they were free! And Severus, too, as a matter of course.

Though 'Shylock' did sense a certain hesitancy when Erik spoke of house-searching and real-estate numbers. It was as though finally the ugly duckling, upon learning he was a swan, could not decide whether he even wanted to change his anti-social ways. Snape could not blame his friend for not knowing what to do.

In the meantime, between leisurely searching for houses in the country, the reunited couple was more happy than any Severus had ever seen. Every day, they spent every minute mooning over each other like bovines, or so Snape petulantly thought. Christine seemed strangely content to live under the opera house for an indefinable amount of time.

Sometimes, they asked Snape to disapparate them to some meadow or other, and upon their arrival they immediately paid him little to no attention. Severus did come to learn that anywhere they went, he probably would be bored stiff of watching them coddle and talk in hushed voices as lovers do. He began to bring books along all the time.

Once in a while, Severus would bring up to Erik the topic of his going home, but Erik always insisted that:

"First, you are not at _all _in our way. I rather like having you around. Second, I simply do not want you to go home. Besides, what is 'home' to you? What would you be going back to, if you did return to your own time? Make this your home. At least here you have a friend."

On these points, Erik's opinion never wavered. Snape often mentally countered the last argument, saying to himself that "Perhaps a friend wrapped up around a girl is equal to none at all," but the fact that Snape himself was a proponent of Christine and Erik's affections ruled out stating this aloud.

In frustration, Severus began to get more and more angry, pettish, and rude. He kept to his room, either reading, drinking, or both—anything to wile the time away.

Under the class of 'anything,' Snape often engaged in daydreaming. Only, he did not call it 'daydreaming', per se, he considered it to be some brand of enjoyable thinking.

One game of intellect Severus found himself amused by was that of Imagine-what-this-person's-life-would-have-been-like-without-you-in-it. The rules were simple: think of a person in his own time, then consider what their life would have been like if Snape had not existed. This had been inspired by an old Muggle movie he'd seen once called _It's a Wonderful Life_, and the engagement had its foundations, rather scarily, in his later childhood.

As usual, he considered his parents first. Tobias Snape, if he never had a son, would have had one 'normal' child, Sylvia (a squib!). Eileen Snape would have fondled over her daughter far more, and probably would have had far less arguments with her husband. She might even have abandoned her talents as a witch altogether.

Then Snape moved on to the Marauders. They definitely would have found another scapegoat, probably . . . yes, probably it would have been Philip Fugbunny. One of the ones first to laugh whenever Severus was picked on, usually because he knew it could be him.

Dumbledore would not be dead now. That much was certain. So would many other people, too . . . but, then, Snape could not remember them all.

Narcissa Malfoy would probably have somebody else under the employ of watching her son when the child was old enough to do the Dark Lord's dirty work. And . . . wait. Narcissa Malfoy.

That was who Christine and Raoul reminded him of. The De Chagnys could very well have been the founders of the Malfoy family!

It all made complete sense, based on what Severus knew of the Malfoys. Originally, the Malfoys were French; it was their pride to say that they came over to England with William the Conquerer.

However, in maybe the late 1400s, one Malfoy completely desecrated half the family's enormous fortune, meaning that they had to build it all up again. Irate, the elders sent that boy away, back to France.

Then, in the early 1900s, (roughly the time they were in now) old Elmongous Malfoy was on his deathbed, and called his distant cousin's boys to come back from France. It was said that the older never came, but the younger did, with his bride. Their arrival was the only reason the family had not died out right then and there.

The familial resemblance was very strong indeed. Though Snape was uncertain if Raoul was magical, he doubted it because of the boy's apparent helplessness to save himself and Christine before Erik allowed them to leave. Christine could not possibly be magical. That would just be too much of a coincidence. The boy was probably a hopeless squib . . . but a squib and a Muggle could give birth to a wizard . . .

Snape recalled a mental image of the Malfoy hall of portraits. Somewhere along the line, though he had not ever seen the name of De Chagny gracing the name plates, he had seen an image of what possibly Raoul could look like in old age, and Christine also. That clinched it, in Severus' mind.

He did, at one point, take time to write a letter to Erik about his discovery. It read:

_My dear lost friend— _

_I will be quite blunt in this epistle, but do not blame me! Blame, instead, fate, destiny—whatever you wish to call the disruptive enmity which controls all life. Now what I have to say is of the utmost importance, to me, you, and all the wizarding world at large. Only one man can save us all—and that one man is you. _

_Now do not think me crazy when I say that, ever since I first saw Raoul de Chagny up close, I realized he was very similar to someone I knew. This, in itself, is not so frightening until I explain whom he resembles. _

_In my world, there is a long-standing, French-descended family called the Malfoys. Now, you will recall the snatches of the epic war I've given you, decades of battle against –dare I pen the name? The Dark Lord. One of this man's—fiend's—greatest supporters , both in wealth and loyalty, was the Malfoy family. _

Here, he went into explaining all the proof he had assembled. I shall not review all that again.

_In short, I determine that if you do not let Christine go, you will throw the entire world out of hand. The reason I say this is: the only reasons the conglomerated good ever won against the Dark Lord was because of my double-crossing, and because of the blunders of Lucius Malfoy. _

_They could have done without me; I just imparted information. But Lucius, to be very frank, is one of the most colossal, big-headed idiots I've ever known. (Probably from all the incest that goes on in his family, he got a dumbness allele from that bastard great-great grandfather of his.) Without his mistakes, the Dark Lord would have taken over the world, and turned it into a living hell for everyone. I do not exaggerate. _

_My friend, let her go. Force her, if necessary. She must live her life with Raoul, one way or another. I am sorry for being the one who brought her back into your vision . . . only to snatch her away again . . . but what can I do? I made a terrible mistake. _

_Simply, it comes down to what I've previously confided. I wanted to do something for you without the taint of selfishness that had poisoned my other kindnesses to you. But, in the end, it was my own selfishness that made me want to do it. It was my own selfishness for a sense of goodness that I can never achieve. _

_Point made! Erik, you will greatly disturb the well-being of generations to come if you do not let Christine go to England with Raoul! Once they do, we no longer have a problem. But in order for them to get there, first you must let them, then prod them along by attempting to shadow them. Remember, Christine said her husband had a business trip, and that was the whole reason we could take her? Possibly it may have had to do with his great-Uncle in England! For what other business could a Comete of leisure have? _

_We have spoiled their plans hence far, and, maybe, the future of the world. I can not—will not—imagine the horrors let loose if you do not do as I bid. In fact, I believe that if you do not make your own sacrifice, I shall do it for you. I pray, though, that I will not find it necessary to put you through such torture. _

"Now that," Snape decided, "Is a horrible letter."

But he left it in Erik's organ bench, nevertheless.

To Be Continued!!

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	22. P'wnd

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 22 **

_Yay for 22! Lucky number! Well, I just finished reading some M rated fiction lately. And I decided that this is not bad, comparatively. So, I'm lowering the rating to Teen. Yeah. I know, I'm very fickle . . . can't decide what rating to choose. Well, I think it will stay Teen now. Yeah. _

It was about three weeks, at this time, after the "marriage" of Christine and Erik. They still were quite happy, and Snape still got thoroughly drunk every other day. Erik _might _have been a little too love-intoxicated himself, because it finally struck upon him:

"Hm! Severus has been getting more and more ghastly every time we see him—whenever we _do _see him, rather! And I do believe he's got into the pantry of wine I always have kept but never even tasted—how else to explain all the bottles I find in the strangest places! Perhaps I've been neglecting the poor man."

So Erik finally realized that something must be wrong with Snape.

"Severus, you cannot go on like this." The Phantom had somehow wormed his way into Snape's room, a difficult feat due to the endless piles of bottles and books spilled around on the floor. Now he kicked mercilessly at these, in order so that he could pace without stepping on them.

"Those are not mine . . ." Severus mused, his eyelids heavy and swollen. Not that he thought about it, but his head was aching too. He hazily poured himself more of what he desperately did not need.

"No, you don't."

Erik smashed the glass before Severus could lift it to his lips.

"You've had plenty, Severus. Do not scare me like this!"

"Shylock," corrected Snape in what could only be called a gentle manner.

"No matter! Severus, I repeat to you: you are scaring me!" Then, thinking that perhaps it might add more of a punch to his argument, he added pointlessly, "You're scaring Christine, too! My good man! You have not looked worse since that day--"

"--That day you will not speak of." Snape sighed and closed his eyes, normalcy slowly ebbing into focus. Erik sat next to him consolingly.

"Honestly, explain what ails you," Erik spoke, realizing what a mistake it had been to dwell on Christine so often. "I swear, I shall try to do whatever I can to remedy the situation."

Severus shuddered. "You would not," he said, not raising an eyelid, "If I told you."

Erik slapped him softly on the cheek, to get his attention. The craters in the sick man's face opened to reveal two black pupils, squinting exhaustedly.

"No." Erik stared meaningfully into his friend's eyes. "I swear, by God, I would do anything." His voice noticeably constricted. Snape melted.

"All right," he sighed, closing his eyes again. "Suppose I told you that Christine had to leave, what then?"

Erik clasped Snape's hand firmly. "What?" He had not expected this! "I would say your brain is addled from . . . from all this!" The opera ghost swept his hand across the mess, but only for his own satisfaction; Snape was not looking. "What you really need is a change of scenery, by God!"

"Wait, hear me out . . . at least on this." Erik's attention, though waning, clasped what threads it still had in reach. Snape wet his dry, cracked lips hesitantly. "Go examine your organ bench, Erik. Look inside, and you shall find a letter for you—written and delivered a week or so ago, when my mind was perfectly clear."

Erik nodded and rose. He walked quickly out of the room, closing the door neatly behind him. It was a few moments before he returned, much slower, reading it. His expression had changed dramatically.

"You mean what you said, in this," he stated, more an appraisal than a question. Severus inclined his head tipsily.

"What do you intend to do about it, Erik?"

Erik scoffed. "The choice is easy. I take her back to Raoul, kicking and screaming if necessary."

This caused Snape's eyes to fling right open, like shutters flung in the morning to admit sweet summer sunshine.

"You don't mean that. You're joking."

"No, I'm not." Erik was serious. "It will be painful, true, but manageable. And, if it is the right thing for me to do—why, I see there is only one decision I can make!"

"You may think that was a good decision, too," came a sharp voice, resounding clear as a vulture's cry in the Serengeti.

Christine stood before them, proudly flourishing a wand.

"Christine!" Erik stumbled back. "I . . . I have something . . . something to tell you . . ." he floundered, unsure of what to say.

"Never mind that." Christine Daae nee De Chagny had assumed a tone of voice so stern and unexpected of her that both men were left speechless. A supercilious grin forced its way upon her countenance. "Mind more that you both are about to die."

……………………….

Christine stepped fully into the room, dressed in a gown Erik had never seen, with a voice Erik had never heard from her. The gown was gaudy, revealing, and altogether far too dazzling; a dress that Erik would never have let touch her skin if he had anything to say about it. The voice was plain, coarse, and common; though of a regal brand, the type of regality which was cheap and manufactured. Draco Malfoy's voice, but more womanly.

"You didn't think," she said, acting the total stereotypical fiendish woman only known since the 1930's B-Class detective movies. "That little Christine could _possibly _ever have anything up her sleeve, now did you? Your precious, little, _unassuming _Christine. You never would have thought this of her."

As she closed the door, venomous and dangerously playful, she reminded Snape of Bellatrix, somehow, too . . . or matches . . . a little girl playing with matches . . .

"Shylock. Erik. Come out to your inevitable dooms." With a strange, insane cackle, she gestured to the door. Erik cast a fearful look at Snape, but found that the other had seemed to have lost all sense of life. Christine sniffed the limp man's lips.

"Stone drunk, as usual. Leave him." She put her wand to Erik's head, as though it were a pistol. "It will be just you and I for a while, Erik. How . . . cozy."

They marched out of the room, Erik thinking that she was, indeed, too close for comfort.

……………….

Raoul stood on the edge of the lake: eager, vengeful, and utterly evil. The arch-villain. The male mastermind, partner only to his second-in-command girl. He might have been Professor Moriaty, Dr. Evil, Ganondorf, Emperor Palpatine, or any host of other famous evil entities. He might even have been mistaken for Satan himself. Yes, Raoul had condemned the man he deemed a monster (Erik!) and that man should pay his dues!

His eyes lit up almost maniacally when he saw Erik and Christine exiting the house, the former under the latter's complete control.

"How delightful to see you, _Erik_," he said coldly once they arrived, Christine throwing Erik to her husband's feet. Without any appearance of concern whatsoever, he examined Erik's nose job.

"Clever work of your friend, I see. How did he ever escape our notice?"

Raoul stood, brushing an invisible speck of dust from his neat jacket. "I did think I knew every ruffian in Paris, after all. Ha ha." His laugh was insincere, a dreadful thing to hear.

Erik scowled. "He's no ruffian! A doctor of sorts, brought down by his own vice of drink! But it is not his fault!"

As the pair reflected upon this, Erik suddenly whipped himself from the ground into his boat, and raised the navigation pole to strike Raoul. Christine was too fast for him, however, and she captured him in an unbreakable bubble. He floated nervously inside it.

Raoul laughed. "Well done, my girl." Christine threw her arm around her husband's waist and licked his cheek, almost like a dog fawning upon his master. But, typically, your dog does not lick you because he's saying that he's aroused by you!

With bated breath, Raoul sent a charm to explode the bubble, just as a draft caught it to sweep Erik away. The opera ghost faced great humiliation when he plummeted to the ground, landing painfully on his tailbone.

"My, this is glorious," Raoul chuckled, and summoned Erik as though the man were any old object in his possession.

"Now, my sweet," he said, speaking to Christine, "Bring us his wonderful _lasso._"

"Of course," Christine replied, and scurried away. She returned moments later.

"Fine then," Raoul instructed. "Give it to him, and set him five paces away from me. I want to fight man-to-man; a true gentleman's duel."

"Take Christine and go," growled Erik, throwing away his lasso.

"A wise choice on your part, my dear sir," Raoul scornfully complimented, "But it seems that it's a bit more complicated than love."

Erik raised a suspicious eyebrow.

"You killed my brother, Erik." Raoul's face changed horribly, contorting into a twisted demon of ire.

Erik, realizing his peril, stooped to grab his lasso—his preferred weapon—but Raoul's wand made it leap playfully away.

"Uh uh uh!" the man clamored. "You did throw it down! Catch it if you can!" Erik watched in horror as his lasso bounded: once, twice, thrice . . . and into the depths of the lake.

Raoul's eyes glistened in delight. "How do you like that, my little man? My favorite opera ghost? My _petite phantome!_"

Erik looked at him, an incomprehensible surge of emotions crossing his beautiful face. Then he picked one. And laughed.

Raoul had to shake his head to make himself believe he was seeing this. A man under his fullest power, feeling the full force of his wrath, the passages to escape disappearing every second . . . and this man laughed?

Then he saw why Erik laughed. Erik, like the genius he was, had concealed his wand in his boot. He drew it out in a flash, and wielded it in a convincingly expert manner. Raoul paled, seeing how now he no longer had the upper hand—the men were equals.

"To the death!" jeered Erik, surging to dominance with fortitude. He seemed invincible now. Only, if anyone had been looking closely, they would have seen that the poor man's face was wet—not from sweat—but from tears.

He made a rush at Raoul, throwing a triumphant _Stupefy! _at his worst enemy since he had been in Persia. This Raoul dodged barely, and replied with a few harsh _"Sizzelio!"_s. These, however, only caused about three feet of fire to sprout from the tip of his wand—and, if you will remember, Erik was five full paces away from him.

The two fought for about ten precarious minutes. Christine cowered in a far corner, her fingers crossed, scared to death now that she saw Erik's ability with magic.

Not that Erik was that great at casting spells in the first place.

But thanks to all the friction between the two duelists, no one noticed Snape as he shuffled out of the house, a mug of left-over cold coffee in his hand, and his wand ready in the other.

Lazily, he seated himself unobtrusively at the open door, for the most part hidden within the shadows. He had to smirk as he saw Raoul and Erik fighting. It was very fortunate that Raoul was terrible with his wand. Beauxbaton's, after all, was not wonderful for a boy's school.

In a lackadaisical manner, Severus sent a silent _"Crucio!"_ at Raoul. The latter fell on the ground, looking for all the world as if someone were electrifying him. Erik almost dropped his wand, astonished because he thought that HE had done that to his enemy!

The curse ended after thirty seconds, however, because Snape was still tipsy and could not hold his wand steadily.

Raoul stood up, shaking still, then pounced at Erik with a new passion. Erik flung a few more pathetic spells at his enemy . . . one of them was _"Alohomora!"_ . . . and Snape kept helping him as much as possible. It did not occur to him that he sometimes was using dark magic.

However, Severus, only because he was so out of sorts, accidentally let the words _"Imperious!" _slip from his mouth as he was about to fire the curse. Every head, in unison, turned to him. He realized that he actually was not as far into the shadows as he had thought, and that, really, he was a very prominent target.

"Shylock!" Raoul exclaimed. He wanted to advance, but did not dare take his wand off Erik. "How dare you not tell us that you were magic! You might have missed all the fun!"

Severus yawned sarcastically, to show his nonchalance, then cried, "Hats off to you. I never would have supposed you were either, MALFOY!"

Raoul snarled. "I am not a Malfoy!" he cried horrifically. "I am my father's son! A De Chagny! You hear, I am a De Chagny!"

Erik and Severus burst out in laughter, Erik because he was relieved that his friend was coming back to him, and Severus because he did not know what the hell he was doing.

Someone must have picked up on the latter, though, because, shattering his mirth, he heard a feminine voice shriek: _"Avada Kedavra!" _

There was a green light, Erik's scream of despair and then . . . nothing.

To Be Continued!!

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	23. A Dream?

DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. I don't own Erik the Opera Ghost either—Gaston Leroux created him (or simply wrote about him, I don't know…)

**Chapter 23 **

"Severus . . . Severus . . . wake up . .. wake up, dear . . ."

Snape finally heard and responded to the whimpers that had been in his ears for the past few days. It took a few moments before he finally decided to open his eyes.

He was puzzled to see Minerva McGonagall at his side, austere and courageous, but very tired.

Her eyes lit up when they made eye contact.

"Oh! Madame Pomfrey! He's made it! He's awake!"

He heard the timid shuffling of dainty feet, and the Hogwarts nurse approached hurriedly. A batch of thoroughly disgusting-looking liquid was in her hand, and she rushed to his bedside.

"Severus, our poor dear! Why, haven't we had a bad time lately?"

Severus attempted to sit up, but a burning pain shot across his chest, arms, and parts of his neck.

"Oh, dear, we mustn't do that!" exclaimed Pomfrey, fluffy as ever. Nevertheless, she compelled him to lay down again. "Rest, that's all we need. Rest. We'll be better when morning comes, but now we must rest."

"Merlin." Snape closed his eyes. "Why do you always have to use bloody first person in the plural tense?"

McGonagall could not keep back a small smile. "He's better now," she announced amusedly, sending Pomfrey away with an indignant flouncing of skirts.

"Hell," Snape said to himself, breathing in the calm quiet of the hospital wing. Was this all real?

"If I didn't know you better, Severus, I'd ask you to keep a civil tongue." But McGonagall did not sound angry.

Of course he disregarded her. "Hell," Snape mused again. Memories of the fight began to swim through his brain, similar to waves of heat rising from the fried pavement. The sudden realization hit . . . that he had just survived an Avada Kedavra.

"What is it?" Minerva queried with interest, somewhat concerned.

"Hell!" he declared a third time, suddenly rising despite the pain, and forcing his eyes wide open. Had the whole encounter with Erik been a mere dream? Were the weeks that passed no more than toxins poisoning his mind? Was an entire friendship just a fiction of his numbed brain?

Then Snape looked to McGonagall and began to laugh—genuine, pure, and wholesome, hearty as a fresh-grilled steak. Damn that sounded delicious just now, he decided . . .

"Severus?" Minerva looked on in questioning. "Are you . . . quite all right? Is something the matter?"

"You would think I was crazy if I told you about it," he insisted, color rising to his cheeks with mirth. "You would think . . . oh hell!" His head fell onto his pillow, and he simply could not contain his desperate laughter.

Minerva laughed uneasily, then put a hand onto his warming forehead.

"Poppy!" she called for the long-gone nurse, "Poppy Pomfrey?"

"Don't bother getting her all riled up again," Severus sniffed, calming down. Then he just found it all too absurdly funny, and began to laugh again.

"What is _wrong_ with you, Severus?" Minerva was aghast.

"I . . . I'm so sorry!" Severus took a deep breath, counted to ten, and sat up again, slower this time. "It's just this . . . peculiar dream I had . . . oh Merlin!" He added, "What happened to me, Minerva? Do you know what just happened to me?"

He stared at her, and she shook her head.

"You were drunk, Severus. On the floor . . . 'passed out' is the correct term for it, I believe . . . and you had been brewing a potion. It overflowed and scalded you. You've been here for days, ever since Charley Mickles found you the next morning."

"Nosey boy." Snape sniffed. He did not have a particular liking for young Charley. Charley . . . a word so like Chagny . . . like Raoul . . . Raoul and Erik had looked _so _pathetic casting spells at each other! He began to laugh again.

"What a dream! Oh Merlin! And to think, I felt . . . I was sure it was real . . ."

Minerva looked sadly at him, certain his mind had blown.

"A nightmare?" she asked incredulously.

"Oh, I was not sure," Snape gasped, finally calming. "Sometimes, during it, I thought it was." He put his hand to his face to hide tears streaming down from his eyes as he broke out in laughter again. "Ollivander's great-great grandfather! Disapparating from the cellars! Andrew Lloyd Webber stole Erik's music! Raoul being the Malfoy's chief descendent! Oh hell!"

He began to sob into his pillow. It was piteous, heart-wrenching sobs . . . sobs of relief that everything was normal again . . . sobs of anger at himself and everyone else . . . sobs for Lily, of course . . . but mostly sobs of loneliness, for Erik was not real.

Minerva did not even try to interpret the overwhelming emotions within the wizard she had watched grow from a boy. Instead, she grasped and held onto his hand, like the mother he had lost so long ago. That was all he needed right now, she thought. She was not far from the truth; Severus needed a great deal of comfort.

Finally, Severus found himself completely sane again, and staring coldly at the ceiling with indifference.

"Please . . .please do not put us through that ordeal again." Minerva's voice trembled. "Believe it or not, some of us hold a great deal of affection for you. It truly scared us all."

Severus gently inclined his head. "I am at a loss for words."

"I mean, surely, there must be something better you might do with your time than . . . than consume strong beverages as is your habit?" queried the Headmistress of Hogwarts sternly. "If you can not learn to behave yourself like the mature young man I know you are—"

Snape broke in with a cruel laugh. "--Young! Hell, Minerva, I feel so old . . ."

This put a damper on Minerva's scolding. She instead squeezed his hand warmly.

"I really do mean what I say, Severus. You are loved here. Of all the beings in this school, I feel that you get the least amount of respect when you deserve the most."

"Empty words Dumbledore taught you to say by rote. I know them all, Minerva, you need not use them any longer."

"That is not true, Severus." Minerva stood in order to stare into his eyes. "You do not understand. Child! You can not." She sat again wearily.

"When I first saw you there," she said slowly, meticulously, "I cannot describe the insurmountable horror that chilled me. It was not the burn, nor the situation that shocked me most . . . it was the look on your face. Not the typical blank stare of any regular drunkard, not even when I've seen you drunk before—"

"—Pardon, but you have?"

Minerva nodded with the hint of a smile. "More than once, Severus."

"Merlin." He had nothing else to add.

"It was not the same look," Minerva hastened to continue, "That I've ever seen on any mortal face. Not any animal's . . .or portrait's . . .or even on a flower or vegetable. It was . . . as though you had completely left your body, completely absconded with your soul and personality to another place or time."

These words made them both simultaneously shudder, but for very different reasons.

"Strange, though," Minerva went on, "I don't know how you got intoxicated. Although undoubtedly it _was _alcohol poisoning that was your ailment, there was no glass nor bottle around you. And you were wearing the most peculiar shirt."

Snape jarred noticeably.

There was a pause.

"What kind of shirt?"

"One that you never would wear in your right mind, that's the point. It looked like it was from . . . oh Merlin . . . like it was from the nineteenth century!"

Snape wondered. "How queer." He jerked his chin upwards and cracked his cramped neck. Hell, this was the proof he needed to know it was all real!

"Do you still have it?" he asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

"Yes, actually. It has been cleaned, though I doubt you'll even want it." McGonagall clapped her hands, and a house-elf appeared, holding a neatly folded linen shirt.

Snape took it, and unfolded it upon the bed before him.

"Merlin!" he said, raising his eyebrows. "It has ruffles at the cuffs!"

Minerva nodded. "Yes," she said slowly. "I presume you did not know that?"

"Merlin!" he exclaimed again, placing the sleeve gently along his arm. "It's his all right. I just never noticed those ruffles . . ."

"Whose?" coughed Minerva delicately.

Severus shook his head. "The devil if I know."

But we, humble readers, we certainly do. And I'll be damned if, secretly, he did not know, himself.

_Thanks to all my readers and reviewers! Special thanks to Thyrin, Akira'kitana, and Suuki-Aldrea, my most consistent reviewing team! I love you gals/guys!_

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